


Dr. and Mrs. Princess Whitelaw

by leupagus, screamlet



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Domestic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by screamlet's excellent <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/31714">First Date</a>, after which leupagus hypothesized that Chris Pine was thisclose to giving it all up and going back to Berkeley to teach English literary theory. Screamlet, bless her heart, didn't call the police.</p>
<p>*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [First Date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/31714) by [screamlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by screamlet

**Intentions (Prologue)**

"So I'm finishing up this last round of premiere stuff and then… I'm going to Berkeley!" Zach's eyes flip from Chris to Chris' parents, who are looking at each other as if Chris had started speaking Esperanto out of his fourth head.

"But why aren't you doing the sequel?" his dad asks. "Because I think --"

"Honey," his mother interrupts. "Chris, this is a little sudden. Tell us --"

"Mom, seriously, don't turn this into a session," Chris replies. "I'm not having some kind of breakdown or anything -- I'm doing this because if I don't, I _will_ have a breakdown."

"A breakdown?" his father asks. "From _what_? You're thirty years old, riding out your first huge movie in a _guaranteed_ successful series, and you want to _quit_? This is _job security_ you're walking away from."

Zach re-evaluates his thoughts on Chris' dad, who at first seemed like the sweetest old man on the planet. _Damn_ did the Pines get ugly when the charm was off.

"Is that all you're worried about?" Chris asks. "Job security rather than my whole _life_ being stolen from me?"

"And you think that's going to stop when you walk out on acting?" his dad laughs. "Chrissy, I hate to tell you this --"

"Wait, you call him Chrissy?" is Zach's contribution to the conversation and roundly ignored.

"-- but this is _work_, and if you think running from your problems is --"

Chris stands up, takes a deep breath, and smiles at his parents. "I'm going to step outside and smoke the half-dozen or so cigarettes I brought _just_ for this occasion." Chris' dad rolls his eyes and leans against the back of the couch, his entire attitude screaming volumes just like his son's would. This one says _take all the time you need **Chrissy**, you're still a moron_.

"Oh," Chris adds, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, "And you should probably get to know Zach, because we're moving to San Francisco next month -- into the _really_ adorable house he's just bought for us." Chris digs the lighter out of the fifth pocket of his jeans, lights the cigarette, and adds, "Yeah. Us. We're together. I'll be back."

Zach watches Chris leave and frowns. He's torn between punching Chris in the balls for abandoning him with his furious parents, and fucking him in broad daylight against the back of the car because that was _hot_. It was a once in a lifetime middle finger of a moment and Zach was almost hard from witnessing Chris at his most gorgeously defiant.

Suddenly he remembers the Pines, the scary motherfucker from _CHiPs_ and the psychotherapist, and that he should start winning them over about now.

"It's funny," his dad begins, "This is what we wanted originally."

"This?" Zach asks. "What?"

"He came to us after graduation, told us he was moving to Los Angeles with his girlfriend." His dad lets out this long suffering sigh that sounds a little too familiar and Zach wants one of those cigarettes a little too badly all of a sudden. "There we were, _begging_ him to consider graduate school, but he was set. He wanted acting and he wanted Beau."

Zach swallows because no, he hadn't considered that he could be the _second_ person Chris had ever been madly in love with.

"You see why we're concerned, Zach," his mother says in that professionally calm voice. "Not only for him, but for you."

"Does Katie like you, at least?" his dad asks, not even looking at Zach but rubbing his face and seriously, the sighing, is this some kind of genetic condition?

"Yeah, Katie likes me," Zach says. "We double date with her a lot. Sorry I kind of joined your family behind your back."

"And you're working?" Chris' dad asks.

"Yeah," Zach replies. "I'm also a producer. That's going okay."

"'Okay' isn't enough to support our son for the next ten years while he makes $8000 a year as a TA."

"He gets a stipend, too" -- which is true but still sounds pathetic. "I'm not going to leave him," Zach adds suddenly. He's _great_ with parents, but the Pines aren't parents so much as _demons_. "We've been living together for about a year now; he's bruised my kidney while we slept. I think we can put up with each other forever."

The Pine Collective nods and Zach can breathe again. He's earned at _least_ a cigarette.

*


	2. The Story So Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disgustingly blissful domesticity.
> 
> by screamlet and leupagus (at this point who the fuck knows who wrote what)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These snippets are posted in the order that we wrote them, not in necessarily chronological order. It's best not to think about it too much, really.

**Office Hours  
**  
It's an imposing building, white and square and _big_, and if there was anyone else around Zach would make a compensation joke. But the only people within inappropriate-humor distance are earnest-looking students in Birkenstocks and dreads, the kind of people who would probably frown and say that it's the beauty of the person within that mattered, not the size of their genitalia.

To which Zach would probably say, "Oh my God, you're so adorable."

He wanders inside and up the stairs, smiling at the few people who blink in recognition at him and sliding past before they can stop him and say, "Hey, aren't you that guy--"

The third floor corridor is even more crowded with indigenous life, long impatient lines of students waiting outside the offices of their various professors. Zach mentally calculates how many professors are hotties and how many are just hardasses based on the number and hygiene of the students waiting.

The line for Room 312-A is ridiculous, and even some of the boys are wearing lip gloss. Zach sidles up to the one at the head of the line and murmurs, "This Professor Pine's room?"

The kid startles, almost drops whatever obscenely heavy book he's clutching, but answers steadily enough. "Yes, and office hours don't start for another fifteen minutes."

Jesus, this is something straight out of Indiana Jones. Zach tries the door.

"It's locked," says the girl who's second in line. "He's not in there."

Zach smiles brightly at them and knocks a familiar rhythm against the door. He continues to smile as the muffled thumps behind the door get louder and join in with not-so-muffled swearing and the sound of papers being shuffled around. Then the door is wrenched open.

Chris looks like every English professor fantasy Zach ever had while sitting bored off his ass in Literary Theory 101, with the exception of his bloodshot eyes and haphazard shaving. He doesn't smell, at least. Zach slips inside and kicks the door closed behind him. "Hey," he says.

Chris' mouth tightens to hide an unprofessorial smirk as he takes Zach in. "You know, I'm not sure you can be in here like this -- there's a dress code in my office. No ironic t-shirts, no jeans-tight-enough-to-sterilize --"

"You might want to reconsider that," Zach replies as he leans against the door with one foot pressed up against it. "It looks like the planet would benefit from the sterilization of those Brendens, Brandons, and Brendas outside your door."

"Don't call them by their slave names."

"All of you?" Zach says, drawing a small circle in the air with his hand. "Going to hell. Just so you know." Zach arches his back slightly and reaches for the doorknob. There's a little nub of a lock there that he presses until it clicks. "I don't have an appointment, Dr. Pine."

"Zach," Chris whines. He takes two steps back to lean against his desk, and stands up again when his ass disturbs too many empty coffee mugs. It sets off a chain reaction of mugs bumping against the dozens of inane desk gifts donated to him by Zach via the Target bargain bin, and probably at least one water bottle spilling on his computer keyboard. "Half those kids out there were blown off _last_ week when you rushed in here with your latest pantsmergency," he adds as he settles against the desk again. "And before _you_ say it -- yes, that's dramatic irony, their being blown off while _I_ was being blown here. Ha. Ha."

"That's also horrible punning. Besides, they need to get used to disappointment," Zach laughs as he closes the distance between them to stand in front of Chris. "It smells like a frat house crashed Homecoming out there. I think your boys had a ritual bath and anointing in Axe before coming here for their intellectual lashings."

"Think I could turn that into an assignment?" Zach knows Chris is warming up to the idea of ditching office hours if he's thinking of distracting the children with assignments. "A real carpe diem bullshit thing -- find an example of classical ritual in your life, write five pages on it --"

"Make it three pages," Zach interrupts. "Brevity is the soul of wit."

"Citation, Mr. Quinto?"

"Some dead dude, I don't know," Zach answers. He steps closer to Chris because a) he can't really help it and b) this conversation might be better if he can keep Chris distracted enough to at least start it. "And actually," he continues, hooking his fingers into Chris's belt loops (Chris is wearing his button-down shirt tucked in but with no belt, what a disaster), "I didn't come here for a quickie." He thinks for a minute, then amends, "Well, not _just_ for a quickie."

Chris is watching his mouth, which is good, but his eyebrows are furrowed together, which is bad. "What is -- oh no."

"It wasn't my idea, but I promised JJ I would at least talk to you," Zach says.

"Well you can tell him you talked and I listened and I very politely told him no thank you," Chris says, trying to straighten up. This is where the close quarters comes in handy; Zach slides a thigh between Chris's legs and bumps their hips together, pushing Chris back off-balance against the edge of the desk. It sets off another round of clinking coffee mugs and rustling papers, but Zach doesn't let Chris go. "_Zach,_" Chris whines.

"You haven't heard the offer yet," says Zach.

"I _know_ the offer," Chris replies. "Shoot the sequel like I was supposed to ten years ago."

"Well, yes, but it'll be different this time."

Chris sighs. "It's a blockbuster movie, it's never _different_. It's four months of filming, twelve months of waiting, two months of promoting, and then three years of getting my picture taken every time I get a cup of coffee."

Zach opens his mouth to argue, but there's actually nothing wrong with anything that Chris has said.

*

  
**Erudite**

The thing is, Zach's good at being famous. He doesn't mind his picture being taken, or at least he's developed a kind of callous over the part of him that did mind, toughened to the photographic lenses that peeked out of parked cars down the street from his house. He likes red carpets and meeting people and lending his name to causes. More than that, he likes what he's famous for: acting, and the occasional producing credit, and he's seriously considering an offer to direct. He's accomplished enough to be sanguine about the fact that he's almost forty-five and will have to make a decision soon about whether or not he wants to continue dyeing the half-dozen silver threads at his temples.

But Chris hates fame, hates it like Zach hates the Ravens or disco, and even Chris's love of acting couldn't rescue him from the horrible side-effects that success brought him. He stuck it out for a year after _Star Trek_ came out, did a couple more movies, smiled at a few premieres. Zach watched him out of the corner of his eye and wondered why his imagination always supplied the sound of a ticking clock whenever he saw Chris pose with someone on a red carpet.

Then the night after the 2010 Oscars, Chris marched into Zach's bedroom and announced that he was doing two things.

"One," Chris said, "I'm quitting the business and going back to school to get a PhD in English literature."

Zach started to laugh, even half-embarrassed as he was over the fact that he was naked under the covers and Chris was looking just as beautiful and untouchable as he always had, always would. "Chris, have you been smoking up with Anton again? I think this is the textbook definition of a bad trip."

"And two," Chris continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, leaning over Zach and staring down at his mouth, "I'm going to kiss you."

One of the greatest regrets of Zach's life is that he couldn't figure out anything cleverer to say at that moment then, "Yeah, okay."

Whatever, it's not like he hasn't been plenty erudite since then.

*

  
**Paella Mania**

Zach comes home to find Chris cooking. What's worse is that it smells _delicious_.

Serious shit is going to go down.

"Oh my God," Zach says in the entrance to the kitchen. "You made a flan."

"Hey!" Chris says. "Come on, sit, I've got dinner."

"And breakfast."

"And probably lunch, too; I'm not really hungry." Chris walks away from the pot of whatever he had been stirring -- oh fucking _Christ_ it's _paella_ \-- and grabs a plate for Zach from one of the cupboards. "It has chicken, I know, but hear me out --"

"Okay, seriously, who died?"

"What?" Chris gives him a beautiful grin that doesn't reach his eyes, which are bugged out enough to roll onto the floor if Zach's willpower wasn't the only thing keeping them in their sockets. "I just felt like cooking."

"Yeah. You just _felt_ like cooking dinner for ninety. And dessert, seriously," Zach ventures slowly into the kitchen and puts two hands on Chris' biceps. "What happened?"

Chris keeps smiling like a deliriously content android and repeats in a voice too high to be real, "I just felt like cooking!"

*

The cooking thing was one of those little quirks Chris had picked up while he was in graduate school. Sometime around year two, Zach had come home to find Chris eating a thick slice of bread slathered in peanut butter, reading an article on his laptop, surrounded by what remained of Zach's kitchen and approximately nine metric tons of flour and some sticky residue Zach _hoped_ was dough.

"Chris! What the fuck!" Zach screamed.

"Oh hey," Chris replied. "I decided to make some bread. Want some?"

Zach stared for several more moments until Chris' eyes lit up again and he ran to a counter, brushed aside five hundred peanut shells, and brandished a bowl at Zach. "And I made peanut butter!"

The rest of the bread loaf and a bowl of peanut butter later, Zach discovered that when Chris' students pretended they hadn't heard him assign a paper, or a professor failed one of his papers for the Shatnerian charm Chris genuinely couldn't help exuding, or his office mate harassed him so he'd be uncomfortable enough to drop out and pass his funding onto her, he would run home and cook. If he had been a scientist, he would have dashed to a lab and created a new plague strain; instead, all Chris had was their immaculate kitchen and a Trader Joe's five minutes away.

(During the year of dissertation writing, Zach actually became adept enough at anticipating the psychotic breaks to bring home the right wine.)

*

"Chris," Zach says slowly, still holding onto his biceps. "Give me the spoon, okay?"

"Zach," Chris laughs. "I'm _fine_ \-- can't a guy cook for --"

"_You made a fucking flan_."

Chris gives up the ghost because flan is pretty damning. He digs his netbook out of a pile of bagged spices on the table, flips it open, and then hands it over to Zach. "Got my article published, but check out my bio. Hold on, I've got to put the shrimp back in."

"Fucking Jesus, there's shrimp," Zach murmurs as he reads. "Dr. Christopher Pine, known best as James T. Kirk in J.J. Abrams' _Star Trek_, now teaches at --"

"_Now teaches_!" Chris shrieks as he throws shrimp into the pot of rice, peppers, and other things that Zach hesitates to admit smell really good. "I didn't write that, Zach! I never do!" He runs out of shrimp and Zach can see him looking for something else to throw in. "I always send in the same little one line bio, mention my specialty and what I'm working on, and they _always_, fucking _always_ pull this shit!" He grinds his hands against a dish towel and Zach hesitates mentioning that, actually, he likes that dish towel -- it was his mom's -- but somehow it seems to not quite make it past his lips.

"They're dicks," Zach finally says. "You're amazing."

"Whatever, have some flan and shit, I'm going to grade papers and drink some bleach." Chris snatches the netbook back and stalks down the hall to his den/office, leaving Zach in the middle of a literal and metaphorical mess that, frankly, is a little too fucking huge for just him to clean. Luckily, the (literal) housekeeper is coming by tomorrow.

"I'm glad you're happy, baby," Zach calls after him. "This was so worth it!"

*

  
**Theories of Other (and Shelly)**

The problem really doesn't lie in the fame-aversion, though, or the cooking-away-my-manpain jags, or even the way Chris will mock what Zach is wearing to a premier while he's wearing Crocs. The problem lies in the fact that Zach is a self-admitted complete and raging psycho. He sometimes worries about it a little, but Chris thinks it's really cute.

Well, probably he doesn't think it's cute _every_ time.

"Who the hell is Shelly?" Zach demands, shaking a paper in Chris's face. It's one of the quizzes that Chris left lying around on the kitchen table, for some horrible class he's teaching with some horrible title like "Theories of Other in Fantasy and Science Fiction," and Zach doesn't really understand why every single student Chris has ever had hasn't killed themselves.

"Good morning. I love you. Now please go suffocate yourself with a pillow," Chris says, or rather mumbles, blinking one eye at him from his prone position on the bed. It's already almost six in the morning and the lazy fuck is still asleep.

"Don't even," Zach huffs, bouncing down on the bed and crushing some part of Chris's anatomy, if the way Chris is whining is any indication. "She answered this quiz with a purple pen and she dots her 'i's with hearts."

"Meaning what exactly?" Chris groans and rolls over onto his back, scrubbing his face with his hands and glancing at the beside alarm. "Jesus Christ, Zach, it's still practically last night. Plus I don't have any spleen anymore, you crushed it with your hip bones of death. What are you even doing awake?"

"I have an early call time. And it _means_, Dr. Princess Whitelaw, that Shelly is a hussy with designs on your virtue." Zach doesn't know this for sure, but his knowledge of the mating habits of teenybopper college girls has always been pretty theoretical.

"I don't have any virtue!" Chris argues. "You took care of whatever virtue I had remaining by, like, Date Number Three!"

Zach takes a moment to fondly recall Date Number Three, but then snaps out of it. "Focus, Professor, and please tell me that Shelly has an overbite or that nervous condition where she pulls out her hair."

"Shelly's on the volleyball team," Chris says, grinning. He pulls Zach down on top of him and Zach tries to cringe away from his godawful morning breath, but Chris still does three-point pushups every morning and Zach isn't going anywhere. "Beautiful blond hair, tall and lean and a musical theater major."

"Wait, is she--"

"She is also," Chris says, "A he."

Zach slumps against Chris's chest, defeated. "I feel like I can't really compete with this," he confesses into Chris's shoulder. "You should give me a blowjob so that my confidence returns and I don't start weeping uncontrollably."

"Aw, baby, you're plenty competitive. Besides, if we're going to run down the list of students I'd like to--"

"I'll kill you," Zach says.

"I'm just saying, Shelly's way down the list. There's this one kid in my Comp Lit seminar, Sarah Caldwell? Man, she's got legs for days. And she's on the volleyball team, too, come to think about it."

"_I_ have legs for days!"

"Yeah, but you're not really sporty, Zach." Chris sighs deeply.

"I have delicate skin and you know I don't feel comfortable with coordinated physical activity."

"That's true," Chris admits, "You like your physical activity impromptu and unrehearsed. I'm just saying, you should probably worry about the students _I_ like, rather than the students that like _me_." Zach glares at him, and Chris adds, "You know, since I could have my pick of any student on the campus."

"Death _and_ dismemberment," Zach promises. "I've heard good things about drawing and quartering."

"Come to think of it," Chris says, "I could probably have my pick of the staff, too. Professor Haines is pretty hot."

"Are you trying to trick me into doing couples therapy again? Is that what this is?" Zach demands.

Chris laughs and hugs all the air out of Zach's lungs and he even gives him a blowjob, so when Zach "surprises" Chris after his Comp Lit class a few days later and gropes Chris's ass in a very proprietary way in front of the exiting students, it's mostly for show.

*

  
**ratemyprofessors.com**

"Zach Zach Zach!"

Zach, who had been rushing to the kitchen for some emergency string cheese, pulls a 180 in the hallway outside Chris' den/office and leans against the doorway. "What what what?"

"I just found myself on ratemyprofessors!" Chris says and really, with the grin he's giving Zach and the way he's practically bouncing in his chair, that is quite possibly the least exciting answer could have given aside from something _actually_ related to Dickens.

"Wow, that's -- fun?"

"Don't you want to _see_ me?"

"I see you just fine."

"Someone even uploaded a picture of me!"

"Were they creepy enough about the whole thing to snap a photo of you mid-teach?" Zach is still not impressed -- it's all in the arms crossed over his chest.

"Uh --" Chris leans into the monitor and squints slightly. "Some premiere. Whatever. Point is -- I have chili peppers!"

Zach finally steps into the room and puts his hands on the back of Chris' chair, turning him to face the computer. "Show me how this works; we didn't have this when I was in college and, believe it or not, I don't care about the Internet."

"Jeez, you're _ancient_," Chris says as he refreshes the page.

"Aww, look at you. Remember when we used to have fun?" Zach leans over one of Chris' shoulders and presses his cheek to Chris'. "All those games of fuck/marry/kill --"

"All that sex we weren't having -- I think we're better off now," Chris replies. "Anyway, look look look --"

"What is this rule of three thing you're speaking in?"

"Here's the main page for the Berkeley English department," Chris says, ignoring Zach, "And I've sorted it by chili peppers."

"Thank you for expanding my linguistic horizons -- I'm not sure I tell you that often enough," Zach adds. He murmurs quietly under his breath, _sorted by chili peppers_.

"-- And _look_."

"I'm right here and looking -- what should I be seeing?"

"Okay, well, the person with the second most chili peppers is this dude with 21," Chris says. "Then there's me -- with _six hundred and thirty-eight_."

Zach stands up straight and looks down at Chris. "You've been teaching for three semesters."

"I know!" Chris beams. "Six hundred kids have like, _seen me_, thought that counted as a class, and rated me fucking _hot_!"

"If you have sex with any them, I will murder you," Zach replies matter-of-factly.

Chris grins and turns around in the chair to look at Zach. "Your ability to put a coherent sentence together totally balances out my kink for overtanned and underfed kids who spend an hour picking their outfits for our discussion sections."

"Ego much?"

"They _brag_ about it," Chris laughs.

Zach leans in again, this time resting his weight on Chris' shoulders and moving Chris' hand out of the way so he can scroll down the web page himself. "Did you click on any of these links?"

"Uh, not yet -- oh for fuck's sake."

Zach snorts and bursts out laughing, switching between tabs to open more of the links students enclosed in their non-reviews of Chris. "Oh look, there I am _choking you_. Oh, here's another one! Aww, you and Anne Hathaway, being so dreamy. You're such a charming --"

"So people sat down and _made_ these tiny soundless clips of me blinking?"

"Hold on, page, two has been declared the tongue page and _I need to see why_," Zach interrupts. "Oh -- you _do_ do that a lot."

"The tongue page?!"

"Sticking your tongue out -- if I didn't like you, I'd compare it to that Twilight girl and her lip bite thing."

"Thanks for liking me in that backhanded way."

"Anytime." They stare at [one](http://i33.tinypic.com/2yx1aaf.jpg) soundless video thing of Chris during Trek filming -- he leans into a lens, tilts his head, and gives a smirk the size of all outdoors. Zach snaps out of it first and announces, "Okay, you're balancing out this computer time with 20 minutes of _Antiques Roadshow_. Now now now!"

Chris spins around in the chair and lets Zach pull him to his feet. "I like _Antiques Roadshow_, though! It's not a punishment!"

"Shh, do you want them to come and take your mancards away?"

"That sounds interesting -- _Antiques Roadshow_ and the construction of masc--"

"Don't you _dare_ write a paper on _Antiques Roadshow_!"

*

  
**Meeting with Margot**

"I'm asking you as my _friend_, Zach," Margot says, sipping at her low-cal strawberry daiquiri.

Zach takes another drink of his own daiquiri. "But you're _not_ my friend," he says, frowning. "You're not even my agent. You're not even my _boyfriend's_ agent."

Margot winces, probably out of reflex; they've been out for the better part of a decade, and it certainly hasn't hurt Zach's career any. "All right, I'm asking you as Paramount's agent, please talk to your life-partner and--"

"Oh, gross, are they really calling it that now?" Zach says, repulsed. "That's just so gay."

"You have to talk to him! It's ten million dollars, and I know he likes being a kept man and all, but that professor's salary is, what, paying for your dry-cleaning bills? Maybe?"

"As a matter of fact, it's not," Zach admits. What, he goes to a lot of premieres and parties and things. Sometimes Chris comes along and smiles really aggressively at everyone and makes them nervous. Zach only makes Chris comes when there is absolutely no one he wants to talk to.

"Just tell him it's this one time, and then he can go back to his ivy league trophy wife lifestyle to which he has become accustomed."

"You know, JJ made me do this last month," Zach says, "And also Berkeley isn't part of the Ivy League."

Margot drains the last of her daiquiri. "I really hate the both of you," she says.

Zach has to sympathize, even with someone who has so clearly sold her soul to the devil (or Ari Emanuel, whatever). Margot was hired by Paramount after Chris fired the last of his representatives seven years ago; she had a reputation for getting recalcitrant actors and directors on board. But no one had ever really given her any idea of just how batshit insane Chris really was. The first time she'd met him, she'd mentioned the work she'd done with Lindsay Lohan, and that had been pretty much that. Since then Zach's been like the best groomed mailman in Los Angeles.

"Give me the offer," he sighs, and Margot slaps it into his hand. "You know he's going to say no, right?"

Margot gets up from the table, already reaching for her cigarettes. "You know what he did to me the last time?" she asks.

Zach doesn't; the envelopes are always sealed and even he's not crazy enough to try to find out what Chris writes back to Margot in his twee Cranes Stationery letters. He just ferries them back and forth every three months or so and listens to two overly beautiful people complain about each other for an hour while drinking something alcoholic. There are worse ways to spend a free afternoon.

"He said he'd consider the offer if I attended church four weeks in a row."

"Wow, that's sick," Zach says. Margot wears a gold cross around her neck, but Zach always assumed that was some trick she used to convince people that she wasn't a vampire.

"And I did it!" Margot shrieks. "Well," she amends, "Actually I just walked in for the last twenty minutes, you wouldn't believe how early that shit starts."

"So you didn't catch fire the minute you stepped inside?" Zach asks, honestly impressed.

Margot looks uncomfortable and says, "Anyway, call me and let me know."

"Always a pleasure," Zach says, tipping back in his chair. He stops the waiter passing by and says, "She'll take the check now. And could you box this up for me, please?"

*

  
**The Conference**

Zach watches Chris' nightly what's-for-dinner ritual:

1.) Stand in front of the fridge and look for changes in the magnets. (Today, Zach has left him _want honey chant from your rain void_ \-- yeah, he was in a weird mood this morning.)  
1b.) Make a mood-dependent contribution (_then left with milk need_).  
2.) Open the fridge and let the air flood out for up to 20 seconds.  
3.) Sigh heavily and lean head against the open door.  
4.) Close fridge door and lean against it.  
5.) Open freezer and let the air flood out for up to 20 seconds.  
6.) Struggle with something buried in the most inconvenient sector of the freezer.  
7.) Sigh heavily and pick up six months' worth of dislodged frozen things.  
8.) Stack haphazardly for tomorrow night.  
9.) Begin dialogue with anything present (Zach, Noah, Topanga -- not the cat. The cat doesn't give a fuck.) on how he just doesn't _know_ what he _wants_.  
10.) Remember craving he had nine hours previous and disturb whatever else is going on in the kitchen to sate that craving.

Zach comes in from another room and rolls his eyes. "Where'd you put my sauteed spinach?"

Chris looks over his shoulder, a chunk of spinach about to be deposited into his mouth, and motions to one of the counters on the opposite side of the kitchen. "It looked done."

"Move it -- it's not."

"I know spinach -- that shit's done."

"Be that as it _may_, I still have stuff to add to it so I can _eat it_."

"Whatever, man."

Zach's what's-for-dinner ritual is as follows:

1.) Get home and collapse on the recliner. (The story of the recliner is something else _entirely_.)  
2.) Greet the dogs. (Noah is always there waiting for him; Topanga usually rushes in with him, sees it's Zach, and then goes back to Chris' office to wait for him. After the first thousand times, Zach decided to interpret it _not_ as canine retardation, but a subtle, almost-cat-like, definitely passive-aggressive way of saying, "Hello.")  
3.) Consider the thirty offers for dinner he received via text on the drive home.  
4.) Decline almost all of them; offer invites for dinner to those he knows can't make it.  
5.) Stroke Noah's fur for a while and review the text exchanges he and Chris had all day.  
6.) Wager with Noah on what kind of mood Papa will be in when he gets home.  
6b.) Snicker at his own genius because Chris still has no idea that he refers to him solely as 'Papa' to the animals.  
7.) Avoid the computer.  
8.) Mentally review contents of the kitchen fridge, freezer, and cupboards (including leftovers).  
9.) Begin cooking.  
10.) Feed dogs.  
11.) Hear Chris come in.  
12.) Brace self.

"I got that grant -- for that a conference," Chris says with at least four edamame in one side of his mouth. "In Montreal. Three months from now."

"Congrats," Zach says as he spins the spice organizer around. "Where's the -- wait, what the fuck am I even looking for."

Chris hands him the Penzey's Greek Seasoning and Zach wonders how the fuck he knew that.

"It's in Montreal. Wanna come? Three days, two nights and I've got a _grant_."

"Wait, say Montreal one more time and I think we'll summon Shatner." Zach looks over at Chris, who looks like he's considering taking that seriously. He shrugs and shoves another edamame in his mouth. "Where is it?"

"Mon -- oh, uh," Zach laughs and Chris throws an edamame over his shoulder and into the spinach. "Ass. It's at Le Centre Sheraton Montreal Hotel. Grant covers our room and stuff."

"Hmm, a whole weekend of listening to papers I can't understand…"

"They're in English."

"Oh honey," Zach says as he turns around, "That's not English." He holds out his hand for the soybean Chris would have thrown at him, but Chris keeps it for himself. Zach shrugs and goes back to adding things into his dinner. "Anyway, there's that, and sight seeing, then going back to the shitty little comped room -- are you actually planning on _going_ to things, or do you just want to go to Canada?"

"I have a paper to give at some point, and I think I can skip… 70% of the panels."

"Because I'm not going to Canada to watch MuchMusic while awkward girls with glasses drop _totally_ sly hints about how they would give up their 34-year-old virginity to you and your Derrida-loving sparkling blue eyes."

"Derrida is so 2002, Zach," Chris sighs. "Is that a no?"

"It's not a no," he replies, "It's just a quiet reminder that if we take trips, _we_ take trips, not you and Berkeley and me as the afterthought."

Their actual dinner-eating ritual goes something like this:

1.) Gorge on hideously healthy snack food while fighting over the four burners and various appliances/utensils.  
2.) Finish cooking and realize total lack of hunger.  
3.) Sit on stools at kitchen counter, bitching back and forth about whatever topic got them through preparing dinner.  
4.) Wonder why they don't make joint meals more often.  
5.) Laugh at the total pussies that do.  
6.) Exchange dishes and compliments.  
7.) Devise plan for the evening (drinks with friends, sitting outside, TV, movies, _grading_?!)  
8.) Realize it's stupidly late and rush through eating/storing leftovers/cleaning up.  
9.) Silently reflect on what those 2+ hours would have been like with anyone else on the planet.  
9b.) Find out it's impossible to imagine.  
10.) Bask quietly in each other's company.

"Wait, I can't go," Zach says in the recliner while Chris grades. He plays with his phone for a few moments and confirms his suspicions. "I'm filming in Vancouver that whole month."

"You're going to Canada for a month and you're telling me _now_?" Chris asks.

"_You're_ going to Canada and you're telling _me_ now," Zach replies.

"For three days!"

Zach taps a few more things on his phone and says, "I only found out a few days ago and we haven't synced our calendars in like a week."

"Ugh, midterm season," Chris sighs. "I can't do midterms alone."

"I'll give you a grant to fund your flying up every weekend," Zach offers. "The Chris and Zach Need to Stop Each Other from Killing Other People and Losing Their Minds Fund."

"You should trademark that, it's pretty golden."

"Make up your mind soon, or I'll start opening the pool up to other applicants," Zach adds. "My brother writes a mean proposal. Speaking of which," Zach stands up and slides his phone into his pocket. "I'm meeting him for drinks. Up for it?"

"Gotta grade," Chris says. Zach purses his lips together and raises an eyebrow because Chris hasn't gotten into his grading pants yet; he can still be swayed. "These papers are long and pretty bad…"

"You know the part of being a professor, where you can pretty much take as long as you want? Because you're a little crazy and scatterbrained and, oh, right, _Chris Pine_?"

Then Chris takes his glasses off, rubs the bridge of his nose, and Zach surrenders. "I'll tell him you say hi. See if you can separate yourself from the couch long enough for a shower. You smell like learning."

"And soybeans."

"And a shitload of soybeans." Zach heads to their room and runs into Topanga in the hallway as she rushes to Chris, finally not being harassed by the bad man anymore. "He's all yours, sweetheart. Have fun."

"Stop flirting with my dog!"

*

Chris' daily ritual, according to the information Zach had collated over the past however many years and Zach's hyperactive imagination, goes something like this:

1.) Sequester self in office with bucket of coffee, netbook, and highly unrealistic expectations as to his productivity.  
2.) Surf the internet looking for photos of Zach.  
3.) 3-5 intense masturbation sessions in the shared office bathroom…  
3b.) Interrupted by planning for his classes.  
4.) Teaching! Either standing up in front of 200 hungover hormone clusters or sitting with his graduate students in an overly cold/warm 'cozy' classroom and listening to them blather on about bullshit Zach didn't care about.  
5.) Lunch? Socializing? (Did Chris have school friends? Maybe he had mentioned them, but clearly they weren't interesting enough for Zach to remember.)  
6.) Teaching! Second verse? Same as the first.  
7.) "Research" or whatever.  
8.) Give up and come home.

_I'm working outside today!_

Zach laughs, keeps his mark, replies to Chris' text, and slips neatly into character again.

They cut and begin to set up for the next shot. He checks his phone again and finds five more texts from Chris.

1.) _You should totally be here._  
2.) _No, you shouldn't, you're really distracting and I'd just be staring all the time. At you._  
3.) _Halfway through my paper! It's going to rock some socks. Panties? They will be thrown at me. I will catch them with my teeth. (gross n/m)_  
4.) _What are you having for lunch? There's a new food cart here; still no Indian food, though._  
5.) _Dear undergrads: thanks. I'm glad you saw Star Trek. NOW FUCK OFF but not I want teacher of the year. (Free dinner!) kisses, C. Pine. PS: you too, sun. Fuck off._

Just an ordinary mid-afternoon for Chris.

_Please don't go by C. Pine. I will end you. See also: C., Whitelaw, or Chrissy. Princess Whitelaw's good. Nothing Pine-related either._

Almost immediately, a text in return: _Have you noticed how many times you threaten to kill me per day?_ Followed by: _You're the Dread Pirate Roberts to my Westley, aren't you?_

_Dude_, Zach replies, shaking his head, _Isn't that masturbatory at some point? DON'T WRITE ABOUT IT IN YOUR PAPER._

"Zach!" the director calls. "Anytime now."

"Sorry," Zach replies, "Just -- family things. You know. Domestic. Stuff. I think he's --"

"Okay, but tell me from your mark, okay? Are we ready to run through this?"

Zach had reached that point in his career where he could guest star brilliantly on just about any show he wanted. The production company chugs along happily and keeps him and Chris in something like luxury (see also: royalties, oh sweet royalties, blessed be thy name, _Heroes_).

Also, Chris was kind of a genius and managed to get through graduate school solely on tuition remission and grants and other shit. It meant Zach only had to buy him clothes occasionally because it was so totally _in_ over at Berkeley to look like a hobo. No. That would not fly. It was chic hobo or chic chic, but he would _not_ be that professor in the flannel shirt and pants being held up by _a cardboard belt_, he didn't care how cool that was in the Great fucking Depression.

*

Why Chris was driving Zach to the airport at 3 AM for his 4:30 AM flight to Vancouver (according to Zach's secret paranoid thoughts):

1.) Hoped to get some excellent thank-you head upon his return.  
2.) Rushing him out of the house so the fucking dogs could start sleeping in their bed.  
3.) Justified taking the next day off and torturing his students with epic reading assignments to make up for the lack of class.  
4.) Presented the chance to pick up a hooker on the way home. (Hookers _love_ airports, though Zach had no real evidence that Chris loved hookers.)  
5.) Refused to believe Zach wouldn't be pissed if Chris didn't offer (he really wouldn't! Driving to the airport is a pain in the ass! He wouldn't drive Chris to the airport except Chris only got on planes twice a year, and the man was a fucking flake who would end up in _Reno_ before noticing it wasn't paved with tarmac or full of planes.)  
6.) Lack of photographers in the airport at the middle of the night, so perhaps there could even be some PDA. Something about the occasional manifestations of feeling blah blah blah psychobabble lit theory bullshit that kept worming its way into their lives.

"I don't like this," Chris grumbles. He sinks even further into the torn-to-shreds leather seat outside security check-in and crosses his arms over his chest. They have their hats and sunglasses on even though it's the middle of the goddamn night and there's _no one_ around except the obligatory night-janitor-with-a-floor-buffer nearby. "He's too… too _pretty_. Guys shouldn't be that pretty."

"We were totally fucking _pretty_ in our day," Zach snorts.

"Well, yeah, but we weren't… he's like, girlishly pretty."

"Yeah, princess. We weren't."

"Ugh, shut up, don't be such a fag."

Zach laughs loudly enough to scare the night janitor. He stands up and urges Chris up, too. "Come on, I've gotta get to my gate. Time for our yearly PDA booster shot."

He stands up and grabs Zach's belt buckle for a second. Zach raises an eyebrow because he's not ballsy enough to do whatever Zach thinks he's going to do -- they're not those guys, never had been and never will be. Yeah, he thinks, Chris knows what he's thinking because he reaches for the clicky clasp keeping Zach's duffel bag attached to its strap and opens it so the bag falls to the ground. "It would have been digging into me," Chris explains, but he's grinning slyly, that _you old perv, how am I with you?_ grin.

"Obviously."

They smirk at each other for a few moments and finally lean in to kiss, softly and chastely at first in case there are people lurking in potted plants with cameras. Once it's been a decent amount of time without bulbs flashing and people yelling, Zach pulls Chris to him by the waist and lets his hands rest there. Chris' hands are traveling up his arms, his shoulders, stopping at his neck and digging into his hair, which Zach returns on Chris' waist by digging in with his fingers. They clutch at each other, really clutch, because leaving never gets any easier.

"And remember _that_," Chris begins, pausing whatever wise parting words he has for Zach to kiss him again, "When you're tempted to fuck that twink."

"He's at least thirty now, Chris. Zac Efron is no longer the twink of my dreams."

"_Christ_, Zach, he's in his thirties and you're still friends with him; hello, husband number two." Chris rests his head against Zach's shoulder and sighs melodramatically, then laughs uproariously because, as it's been said, Chris is crazy and Zach is glad it's a crazy he can handle. "Also, I would have driven you to the airport tonight."

"You _did_ drive me to the airport," Zach notes.

Chris nods eagerly and adds, "Yeah, and I'm glad I offered because you're _thankful_, but -- all you had to do was ask. Or not even ask, actually, just sort of say, 'Hey, Chris, airport now' and I'd go."

There's one more hug and kiss, the making of a phone date tomorrow night, a video chat date the night after, and Zach goes.

*

Things Zach expected Chris to do in Montreal:

1.) Arrive in shitty little hotel room and admire its shittiness and littleness, and how he was really _roughing it_ like other real academics. (Shitty hotel rooms for Chris were like trips to The Great Outdoors for stockbrokers.)  
2.) Fall asleep on the fucking granite bed, wake up with a thousand kinks in his back, and remember why Zach splurged on hotel rooms. Silently curse him and miss him.  
3.) Eat?  
4.) Conference shit. Zach imagines Chris in his lamest academic suit jacket and jeans, sipping shitty Canadian vodka-and-soda in a ballroom full of other academics, and being too good looking to be there. (It wasn't idle flattery -- Chris was _too_ good looking at his age, too _everything_ in general, to mingle with squinty, shabby people whose idea of a great night out was some intense punning at their local bar.)  
4b.) (Fuck, okay, he and Chris had done that a few times, too, but they had been fucking beautiful at the time so it was elevated to a goddamn _art_.)  
5.) Bow out with some grace and passive-aggression when the open bar began to affect his fellow conference-goers, who would begin to talk _Star Trek_ and hit on him.  
6.) Go back to his room, work on whatever he was actually there to do, shower, read in bed, and text people until he fell asleep.

The door finally opens so Zach can stop looking at his shoes and grin at Chris, who shrieks because he's startled and takes a few steps back. "Shit, man! Wait! Shit!" Chris launches himself at Zach and wraps his arms awkwardly around him. Zach laughs and grips his waist like the last time he saw him almost three weeks before. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Zach answers in the middle of Chris' sentence, "Took the weekend off, hope it's okay." Zach rests his chin on Chris' shoulder because to judge by Chris' tightening arms around him, he won't be released anytime soon. "Did your paper go well? I seem to remember you promising it would be a panty-flinging good time."

"Paper went okay," Chris says, his mouth obviously buried in Zach's shoulder. "Q&amp;A was fucking bullshit."

"Oh?"

"Well, remember a few years ago how I was writing constantly about over-historicizing?" Chris stood up straight finally, but kept his hands on Zach's shoulders as he spoke. "And how criticism in general had been going too much into the personal lives of the authors for parallels and _basically_ taking the discipline back into the fucking _Enlightenment_?"

"Let's assume I do," Zach replies, letting his hands run up and down Chris' sides in something like a soothing manner.

"Yeah, well, so my paper today kind of tied that in with the stuff I'm working on now, fine, but there were these total _dicks_ at the Q&amp;A who basically _deconstructed us_."

"As in you and me?"

Chris looks away and digs his fingers even tighter into Zach's shoulders. "These three guys -- from _Buffalo_ of all places, like they have anything to brag about -- are sitting there discussing how my interpretation of this novel could have been influenced by my relationship with you."

"How'd you answer?" Zach asks. "Did you acknowledge their status as complete and utter dickheads?"

"I told them I wouldn't acknowledge my personal life as being relevant to the discussion -- but even better, when I asked if anyone had more questions: not one! Not a single fucking person was there to hear what I had to say about this fucking novel." Chris ends the story by dropping his head on Zach's shoulder again and moaning.

"Where were you headed?" Zach asks, his hand still running up and down Chris' back.

"One of their panels."

"Chris!" Zach shouts, pulling back to look him in the face. "Were you going to _heckle_?"

"What? No, I'm gen--"

"Nope, wrong answer," Zach declares. "First we're having sex, then showering and going to those assholes' panels."

"You'd come with me?" Chris asks. "But they're so --"

"Boring? That's the point. We'll hang around outside, try and get noticed, and then bring all those awesome _distractions_ into their spaces." Zach grins and adds, "I think this is my yearly use of celebrity for evil. It's going to be awesome."

"No time to waste, then," Chris laughs. "Get the fuck in here."

*

  
**Get Out of Jail Free Card**

There is no way he can get out of making his one phone call be Chris, but somehow he really wants to make his one phone call be anybody _but_ Chris. It doesn't help that Martin is arguing with his daughter at the next phone bank over about his bail.

"I don't want you to get me out," Martin's arguing. There's a shrill sound on the other end of the line. "I'm agitating for a cause, honey. Did Sheila get the birthday present I sent down?"

Zach picks up the phone and debates pretending to Chris that, because the cops had confiscated his phone, he couldn't remember their home phone number or Chris's cell phone number or his work number or his emergency-professor pager number that Zach still calls every once in a while when he wants to pretend to be one of Chris's twinky students who will do just _anything_ for a grade, Professor Pine Sir. It would work in the short term, maybe, but it'd probably result in Chris breaking out those iron-on "IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO 2504 JACKSON DRIVE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HAVE SEX WITH THIS MAN, HE HAS SYPHILIS AND ALSO LEPROSY OF THE PEEN" patches that Chris put on all of what he termed Zach's "sluttiest" shirts and pants when they first moved up north.

So he girds his loins and dials their home number, rehearsing his "sheepish yet quietly firm in his convictions" tone of voice under his breath. Only it goes to voicemail: _Hello, you've reached Chris and Zach, this is Chris speaking, Zach won't record this message with me because he thinks it's too gay--Zach stop trying to interrupt the recording!--Anyway leave a messageatthebeepbye! BEEEEP._

Zach blinks at the receiver for a second; he's not really sure about the protocols in what happens if your one phone call goes straight to voicemail. He leans over to ask Martin (if anybody would know, it'd be him) but gets interrupted by the most godawful yelling from the front office.

"I don't give two shits and a used _tampon_ if you were just doing your job, you have Zachary Quinto locked up for attending a legal, authorized protest, and if you don't think an entire law school didn't scrutinize those protest permits than you're out of your fucking _mind._ Now I've got a dozen reporters on fucking _speed dial_ and I can make this evening a misery that you've never even dreamed of if you don't get him out right the fuck _now._"

Zach wants the voice to be Chris's -- and Chris can sound like a bad-ass motherfucker when he needs to, Zach's seen YouTube clips -- but it's Stan, who is shorter, older, uglier, and way more effective at getting people to bend to his evil will than Chris (or even Zach) will ever be. Zach suspects it has to do with the way the guy always smells like patchouli. After five minutes around the guy, you'll do anything to get away.

Sure enough, Stan comes strutting into view a few minutes later. "Jesus. Uh, Mr. Sheen? You want to get out of here, too?"

Martin waves cheerfully over at Stan from where he's sitting with about thirty other agitators. "I'm good. Zach, thanks for coming out with us tonight!"

"Sure thing, Marty," Zach says, and all but leaps through the door as it swings open. He ignores the one or two (dozen) looks of betrayal from those less fortunate and well-connected, who will probably have to wait twelve whole hours before being released. "How the hell did you know to come get me?" he asks Stan, because Stan is his lawyer and is incapable of accepting a thank-you. (This works out well, because the last time Zach said "thank you" it was to Noah, when he threw up on Chris's shoes and not Zach's after eating an entire chocolate cake.)

"Chris called me. Apparently yins made the nine o'clock news. He's waiting for you outside."

"Well," Zach says, signing something that a uniformed cop puts in front of him -- it may be an autograph book, but after he signs it he gets his cell phone and his wallet back, so probably not -- and bites his lip. "Shit."

"Yeah," Stan says. "I'm not sure I actually did you a favor busting you out."

*

Chris doesn't talk the whole way home. Zach makes a few attempts, mostly along the theme of "I really didn't know that the protest would get that big" with a variation on the "but hey! This means a lot of people are pro-gay-marriage this year, that's good, right?" anthem. They do not seem to be playing well at the moment.

They park the car in the garage and Chris gets out and slams the door shut without waiting for Zach, which makes it likely that Chris might be capital-A-Angry as opposed to just kind of annoyed or ready to punch a pap or something. Zach follows Chris up the stairs into the house; none of the lights are on, so Zach can only hear the tick-tick-tick of Noah's and Topanga's toenails at the top of the stairs. Chris shushes them and lets them out back.

The moonlight cuts into the room through the french doors, and Chris is outlined, beautiful, back to Zach and staring out into the backyard. Zach forgets that Chris might be capital-A-Angry and wraps his arms around Chris's waist, presses his nose into Chris's shoulder, breathes in deeply.

Chris doesn't stiffen the way Zach half-expected him to; he sighs and tilts his head so that Zach can kiss along the line of his neck. "You," Chris rumbles, still looking away, "Are too old to be arrested alongside Martin Sheen and five hundred college students."

"It was a good cause," Zach says.

"It's the fourth proposition in ten years," Chris points out. "We vote for it, they vote against it, every year it goes on the ballot and every year the guys who won last time lose this time. It's a little disorienting trying to keep track of what rights I've got any given year."

"Mmm. How many times have we been married now?" Zach asks.

"None," Chris laughs. "You keep talking about taking me to Tiffany's whenever we're in New York, though."

"Three carat," Zach assures him, "Princess cut with tapered baguette accents--"

"Okay, first of all, princess cut?" Chris protests, turning around to kiss Zach properly. "And second of all," he murmurs, "I can't _believe_ everybody thinks that _I'm_ the girl in this relationship."

"I'm thinking a platinum band?"

"Don't forget," Chris breathes into Zach's mouth, "It's gotta be conflict free."

"God_dammit_," Zach mutters, and Chris laughs, and with one thing and another the dogs stay outside for about half an hour longer than they were probably interested in staying out there. But they sit patiently at the french doors and when Zach hauls himself up from the bed to let them back in, they just wag their tails and trot over meaningfully to their food bowls.

  
*

**The Premiere  
**  
Another problem with their idyll is that, as wonderful as San Francisco is, it's not actually in Los Angeles. The commute is a bitch and a half to say the least; moreover it's almost impossible to get Chris to set foot in Los Angeles proper (the Valley doesn't count, since his parents still live there and apparently Chris came from one of those gross non-dysfunctional families that enjoy spending time together playing Boggle or something, the point being he'll go to San Fernando Valley on a dime but Hollywood is "too far a drive," that asshole).

"Come on, one evening, one night, I'll blow you in the limo on the way there," Zach wheedles. He's walking down the street and there are probably an equal number of people staring at him because they recognize him and because of what's coming out of his mouth. Whatever, he's on a mission.

"Zach, it's just a premiere. You don't need me there." There's a noise on the other end of the line like he's dropped something. "Shit."

"What was that?" Zach demands, clutching the phone to his ear and plugging his other ear with a finger. "What are you _doing_?"

"Well, you know how you said your study was too puce?" Chris says brightly. "I was at the Home Depot this morning and--"

"Stop right there," Zach orders. "Just -- I don't want to know, okay? Repaint my office, whatever, but I want you to come down tomorrow."

"But I don't _want_ to go," Chris points out reasonably.

Zach sighs heavily, hoping that this will convey the depth of his exasperation and despair at every having such a terrible wife, and holds his cellphone between his cheek and his shoulder as he struggles to open his car door. "Yes, you do, because this premiere is important to me and you love me. Also you secretly want to brag to Angie that your husband is totally hotter _and_ still has all his hair."

"Zaaach," Chris whines. "It's midterms, I have people to _here_ who I need to rob of the will to live. I can't be everywhere!"

"You are coming down tomorrow on the 2:30 flight into LAX, first class, your Breezeway pass is all updated, and I had your tuxedo repaired and steamed."

"Repaired? From -- oh, right, the Golden Globes," Chris says, a fond thread of amusement in his voice. "I still can't believe you did that to my pant leg, you asshole."

"I _told_ you it wasn't plastic," Zach says.

"Consider me rebuked. Anyway, I'll see if Stefani can take care of the kids for the night. And you owe me a blowjob _and_ the gift bag."

"Deal," Zach says, pumping his fist in the air in silent victory.

"And stop doing the frat-boy fist pump. I swear to God if you get any more like Zefron I'm going to trade the two of you and have really bendy sex with him."

"Hey," Zach protests; but he's not too worried, because Zac deeply afraid of him (as it should be). "You know, as often as I threaten to kill you, you threaten infidelity. I don't know which is worse."

"That's because you're insane," Chris says, and hangs up. Five seconds later, Zach gets a text message that's row after row of hearts.

*

"Thanks, babe," Chris says.

Zach glares up from the floor of the limo. "_That's_ your response? Really. That's what I'm getting right now." He sits back on his heels and glares.

Chris looks the tiniest bit abashed. "Well, I did give you plenty of enthusiasm and appreciation during the actual act," he says. "Also, uh, baby, it was the best I ever had?"

"Damn right," Zach mutters, struggling to his feet and collapsing half on top of Chris. "Oof. God, do we have to go to this stupid thing?"

Chris shrieks, "You're the one who bullied me onto a plane and into a tux _and_ a limo! We are not _not_ going."

"Why don't we just go out for dinner or something?" Zach wheedles as the limo pulls up to the entry of the red carpet.

"Too late," Chris sighs, and the door opens.

Most premieres don't require a tux, but this is different -- Clint Eastwood's final film, finished just a few days before he died at the age of 91 years young (there's already legends circulating how he'd been killed on Mullholland Drive riding his motorcycle, how he'd been shot by the husband of a 25-year-old starlet in their bed, how he'd crashed into the Rockies in his single-engine plane. Clint would've laughed at all of them and denied nothing. He'd passed away peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his family). Everyone's dressed to the nines and tens and talking about the death of a legend and how it means some integral part of Hollywood has died with him.

Zach keeps Chris very, very far away from the cameras, and he does the red-carpet interviews as fast as is decent. He's got a co-starring role in the film but he's not the main attraction; most interviewers are nodding politely at him while peering over his shoulder at Taraji, who's just arrived.

"You want me to trip her?" Chris murmurs in his ear when Joan Rivers scoots past in order to gush over Taraji's "just fucking gorgeous dress, sweetie you look like a million bucks."

"See, my question is why Clint had to cark it and Joan Rivers is still alive and kicking," Zach says, taking Chris's hand. "Also no. You've annoyed enough members of the press in your lifetime."

"You punch out one little pap and you're branded for life," Chris mutters, but he follows obediently through the doorway and into the lobby. "Seriously, though, I thought you liked her."

"Who? Joan Rivers? I think she eats baby ducks for breakfast."

"... meaning you like her? And actually I was talking about Taraji." Chris raises an eyebrow at Zach, which is totally unfair. "I saw you looking all pissy when she got here. 'Swhy I offered to trip her."

"Aww. My honey, tripping over Oscar winners so his man doesn't feel jealous."

"I want to treat you right," Chris insists. "Or, I mean. We could sneak into the men's room during the movie and I could return the favor, if you know what I mean." Zach rolls his eyes, and Chris frowns. "You _do_ know what I mean, right?"

"Yes."

"I mean, the favor in the limo. The one I thanked you for." Chris is being an asshole now; Zach kind of likes it. "When you were on your knees? That favor. The one where you blew--"

"Oh my God, I'm getting a divorce," Zach declares.

"My mind," Chris finishes. "Hugely."

"Hugely?" Zach smirks and Chris flushes a deep, adorable red. "Aren't you being a little overconfident there, Mr. Pine?"

Chris rallies fast enough. "Hey, it's plenty hugely. It's the hugeliest you ever had, you said so on our second date!"

"I say a _lot_ of things on second dates," Zach says dismissively.

"Say? Present tense? When exactly was your last second date, Mr. Quinto?" Chris has that glint in his eye that says Zach will totally be sleeping on the metaphorical couch (metaphorical because fuck that noise, their LA house has like three guest bedrooms and actually the Yellow Guest Room's bed is better for his back).

Zach wrinkles his nose, makes a show of thinking. "God, I can't remember. There aren't usually a lot of second dates, you know, with us gays."

Chris makes a sound kind of like a dying hippo and stalks off to their seats. Zach admires his ass as he follows him.

*

  
**The Recliner**

Zach had known he was in a committed relationship when the recliner entered their living room.

Somehow, it hadn't been the house they bought together; it hadn't been the dog Chris found, brought home, and mostly kept away from him until Zach finally admitted he loved the damn thing; it hadn't been ending every night, no matter where they were, by being the last people they talked to either in person, on the phone, via video chat, or even a text. No, it was _the recliner_ that that had sealed the deal and announced to Zach he was gone -- he was someone that had compromised his standards in furniture because it would make his overworked and under-appreciated, extremely good-looking boyfriend happy.

The universe chose to reward Zach by making the recliner the fucking comfiest thing on the planet, to the point where Chris only sat in it when Zach was off exfoliating or something. The recliner was his guiltiest of pleasures, which subsequently made everything done in it approximately 96% more awesome.

*

  
**Workshop**

"Next up is Chris' paper, as he has to leave a little early," Dr. Marcus announces. "Who would like to start?"

Chris has his netbook open and a grin on his face, ready to listen to these brilliant, thoughtful people dissect his work that, to be honest, is kind of brilliant. It'll rock the committee running the second year review. More importantly, it is _done_. (No thanks to Zach, who had lounged on the damn couch reading, his shirt riding up and jeans resting dangerously low on his hips while he sat in the recliner for once and tried to -- what? Write? Yeah, _that_ happened.)

"I really liked your use of language," Janie begins. Chris turns his eyes to her. She falters and looks down at her response. "And the way you wove information together was _so_ \-- informative."

Chris' grin becomes a set of serious pursed lips and he types in his document: _information was informative._

"Like," she continues and Chris gives her his full attention again. "I never thought anyone would write about Neil Gaiman's appropriation of Shakespeare, but I wonder -- have you thought of looking into the _reception_ of this comic?"

"I did, actually," Chris says. He presses a few keys and adds, "Page 12 is where that section starts."

Pages rustle as everyone looks. Janie nods.

"Right, that's why I thought my suggestion sounded so familiar!" The class laughs and Chris gives them a tight smirk with one corner of his mouth. "I actually meant maybe you could look to how this was received in the academic community?"

Chris' smirk stays firm and tight.

"Ryan," Dr. Marcus calls out.

"So, did you think about referring to Pope at all?" Ryan asks. "Just because these themes you're working with, like humor in literature -- not humorous literature, but the _subject_ of humor in literature -- sound like something so out of Pope that you could probably draw some interesting parallels there."

"The Augustans aren't really my area," Chris says slowly, "But I'll look into it. Any titles in particular?"

"Not off the top of my head."

"Nancy," Dr. Marcus says.

"So my response paper has loads of little grammar things you might have missed, don't mind those -- my main question has to do with the missing section?"

Okay, it was _pretty_ done, which was done _enough_. "Right, yeah, I hope that was clear -- my plans for it and --"

"It was, but I was thinking that maybe you didn't need it at all?"

Both of Chris' eyebrows shoot up and he pretends to type.

"Only because I would rather see more of your reading of those two sonnets through the comic -- I think you can get a lot more out of it, especially if you bring in some theory, like Foucault?"

At least it's a suggestion, Chris reflects. "I can take one more comment," he says.

There aren't any, so he collects the responses handed to him. The class is disconcertingly quiet as he packs and leaves, but bursts into chatter once he's out in the hall.

Outside on the grass, he sees Zach's obnoxiously huge sunglasses first. He jogs over and, for no reason he cares to explain, wraps an arm around Zach's waist, his hand clinging to the belt loops at the back of Zach's jeans.

"Mom, Chris insists on trying to take my pants off in the middle of the lawn -- no, I don't know why I keep him." Chis grins and Zach moves the phone towards him. "Say hi to your surrogate Italian mother."

"Hi, Ma," Chris calls into the phone.

"Yes, he's eating. That picture is old -- all he does these days is sit on the couch and read." Zach puts his arm around Chris' shoulders and they walk towards Chris' car. "No, that nickname's too cute; how about Fatty? It's a classic -- he's not going to get a _complex_," Zach sighs. "Okay, Mom, we're going to drive up to the lake now, so I'll talk to you Sunday. Love you."

"Love you, Margo!" Chris calls.

"Mom, oh my God, seriously --" Zach shoves his phone into one of his pockets and says, "I don't get this _effect_ you have on women. Speaking of." He grabs Chris' hand, which had slid into one of Zach's back pockets and groped as they walked, and puts it back on his hip. "You're _clingy_ today. How was class?"

"Fine," Chris says, clinging a little tighter until Zach starts to make fun of him again.

*

  
**Class Selection**

"No way," Zach says, scowling down at the course catalog. Chris rolls his eyes and tries to take it back, but Zach smacks him on the hand. This is getting ridiculous; Chris has to turn in his schedule in twelve hours and Zach is being a bastard.

"Zach, I already took, like, three semesters of it in college," Chris says. "I need to show proficiency in two languages, can't one of them be a language I'm actually proficient in already?"

"_No,_" Zach huffs. "German food is terrible, and their taste in music is even worse."

"I thought you liked David Hasselhoff," Chris says.

"I do like him," Zach says, flushing. "But, like, just in an acting kind of way."

"In a shirtless-on-Baywatch-kind of way," Chris mutters.

"Look, they have an Italian 101 class. And it's at one p.m.! Your German 302 or whatever is at some imaginary time."

"It's at nine in the morning on Wednesdays and Fridays," Chris sighs. "That's only imaginary to you because you always approach it from the wrong side."

"Whatever, Italian and... hmm. Say 'voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir' for me."

"Zach, I'm going to bed. And no, I'm not saying it, and yes, I do know what it means."

"But French food is amazing! And wine! Come on, we'll go there for vacations, we'll eat in Provence and, I don't know, bike around the mountains or something. And then we'll go to Venice and eat _more_ food, and see the sights, and you can impress me with your amazing mastery of the languages and your talented tongue--"

"I was waiting for you to pull that one out, thanks," Chris says, getting up from the table. Zach scoots in behind him and wraps his arms around his waist.

"Come on. French, Italian, and I promise I'll play the 'I'm a foreigner in your country and I'd like directions into your pants' game any time you want."

"How about _German_, either Italian or French, and you play that game anyway because you're the one who came up with it in the first place?"

Zach sighs. "Fine."

*

  
**Staying Classy**

"Zach, you need to come back right now," Chris moans into the phone. "I hung out with the other grad students today and _they are terrible people_."

"They didn't force PBR on you, did they? That's just an East Coast thing, right? Oh my God, Chris, have I told you how lucky I am to have you?"

"Uh, no? But I am, too?"

"Keep your vagina in your pants. I mean because I got dragged to a gay bar here last night -- a gay bar _in Ohio_ so think about _that_ for a minute -- and I forgot how fucking much I hate them. Don't let me go to one ever again."

"'Kay, don't ever go to a gay bar again," Chris says. "Don't let me go out with those kids again. _Zach, they're 22_, I mean, most of them are and I just wanted to vomit. And they all want to come over and play with Topanga."

"It's not that I don't support you -- you know I do -- but they are never setting foot in our home, okay?"

"_They don't watch TV, Zach_," Chris whines. "I mean, I don't either, but they have some kind of _vendetta_ against it and they only drink cheap beer and _why_ did you go to a gay bar?"

"This guy needed a wingman. I was hungover just from the plaid, Chris, how do people _live_ like this? In _Ohio_?"

"I don't know, just come home and make guacamole. I got the last of the avocados from the grocer's."

"I gotta go -- night shoot -- but I'll be home in two days, okay? Try not to watch any French films or drink beer that costs less than $6 a bottle, okay?"

"I've got red wine and _Anchorman_ in bed."

"Stay classy, baby."

*

  
**Teacher of the Year**

"So, uh." Melenee fiddles with her tape recorder on the kitchen table and sets it to record, then flinches away from it like it'll go off or something. Chris tries to resist drumming his fingers on the countertop. "Mr. Pine -- Professor. Uh. Sir. How do you feel about getting the Teacher of the Year Award for the third straight term?"

"It's really an honor," Chris lies. Zach, hovering in the doorway behind Melenee's shoulder, makes a gesture to indicate that Chris's fake-o smile is slipping. Chris clears his throat and tries a re-application of the smile. "Berkeley's known for the quality of its academic staff, so to even be nominated is a huge privilege."

"Right. Yeah." Melenee flips through her notebook frantically. "Uh. They said that you won by about two hundred votes, but I was looking through your course schedule and it looks like you've only taught about 70 students this year."

"Well, I did stuff the ballot box," Chris jokes.

"Not really! He didn't, actually," Zach interjects, and Melenee jumps about three and a half feet in the air and makes this really embarrassing squealing sound. She spins around in her chair (almost toppling it over, which, again embarrassing, this girl is never going to get a boy acting so spazzy) and squeaks, "Oh! Uh, hi Mr. Quintet. Queeno. Quinto! Hi. Mr. Quinto."

"Hi there," Zach says, or rather purrs, and Chris frowns at him. Not because he's particularly worried that Zach and Melenee are going to stare into each other's eyes and run off to Vegas (Melenee's very nice, klutziness aside, but she has boobies and Zach finds those terrifying); rather it's pretty obvious to Chris that Zach is doing his Operation Smooth Maneuver on her for some reason. Usually when he busts this out he's trying to charm a reporter or he's trying to get funding for another insane project of his.

But the _Daily Cal_'s terrified sacrificial lamb sent to his house for the interview doesn't really count as a reporter. (Chris learns later that there is an annual thumb-wrestling contest that involves a tournament bracket in order to establish who will have the honor of interviewing him, and that Melenee's freakishly large right thumb had secured her victory even though she was just a frosh.) So Zach's pouring on of Charm Number Five is kind of baffling.

Chris rolls with it, though. "You're right, I didn't stuff the ballot box. I traded sexual favors."

"He didn't do that either," Zach tells Melenee. "Would you like some coffee or anything?"

"Um, sure? That'd be great? Thanks?"

Zach snags Chris's elbow on the way past and drags him bodily out of the chair. "Don't you remember anything from last year's fiasco?"

"Last year was fine," Chris dismisses.

"Last year the paper ran with the headline 'Professor Pine Awards As For Students With Best Weed,'" Zach hisses, slamming cupboards in his quest for the organic free-range coffee beans.

"Oh, it did not, and besides, that kid was an asshole. Melenee's much nicer." Chris pulls down some mugs, the heavy ugly ones that Zoe made during one of her regrettable pottery-class phases.

"Melenee hasn't been able to get out a statement without hiccuping," Zach points out. "I mean, there's a possibility that she's going to pass out from the sheer awesomeness of being in our presence."

"She's cooler than that," Chris protests. Over Zach's shoulder, he watches as Melenee drops her pen, bends down to pick it up, and smacks her forehead against the table top. "Okay," Chris concedes, "Maybe not."

*

The article is glowing and puff-piece-y and fairly well-written, although Chris can't help noticing a few dangling modifiers and her overuse of the word "magnificent" (three times in a four-paragraph piece, once in reference to Noah, who is many things but magnificent may be pushing it). Zach buys three copies of the paper and sends one to Chris's mom, one to John, and cuts the article out of the third copy and posts it on the fridge. Chris lets it stay there for three days, and then slides it under the door to Zach's study so he can paste it into one of his super-creepy yet weirdly endearing scrapbooks he keeps.

The award ceremony itself is total bullshit, not the least because most of the other professors have been in a snit for the past few years that Chris always wins, but Zach comes with him and gives him a hugely inappropriate kiss in front of the Dean and that makes up for a lot.

*

  
**Tenure**

If Zach had to have one year to relive over and over again, it would be the year Chris got tenure at Berkeley.

"It's kind of a big deal," Chris explains whenever he brings up the subject. "For one thing, they can't just _fire_ me whenever they want."

"Oh, yeah, you're next on the chopping block," Zach replies as he, of course, puts an onion _on_ a chopping block. "Well, fellow administrators, we must let someone from the English department go. Shall we choose the asthmatic, plaid-encrusted assistant professor who runs home every night to his Lean Cuisine --"

"Gerald's pretty cool," Chris protests.

"No, gentlemen," Zach continues, "Let us be rid of that gorgeous, intelligent, productive, popular young professor, whose classes are always over-enrolled, who has won Teacher of the Year a record-breaking number of times, who --"

Chris rushes up to Zach and wraps his arms around him, carefully avoiding having one of his fingers or hands chopped off. "Couldn't just say you're crazy about me? Had to go through all these channels and impressions, didn't you?"

Zach tries to rub a half-onion in Chris' face, Topanga runs off with most of the seasoned tofurkey, and dinner is ordered instead.

*

He does get tenure, though, and it's the best year ever. Chris doesn't teach for the first summer in about ten years and Zach accepts the offer to film something in Europe -- in some other year, in some other mood, he wouldn't have taken it, but Florence is _warm_ and full of narrow streets where they can get lost if they bother leaving their apartment.

*

The main difference in this pre- and post-tenure life, however, comes with Chris' students and his place at school: namely, that he has one. He's allowed to make plans further than the end of his contract; he talks to Zach about watching his undergrads become his graduate students and then his peers, and other sappy shit like that. He becomes a faculty adviser for tons of shit, though his students are so thrilled by his presence that they do all the work and he just… advises, shockingly enough.

It's sweet, Zach supposes, though he'd have to be pretty drunk on afterglow or margaritas to admit it to Chris, especially the part where he can think of two or three young actors he feels similarly about.

*

"You're _so_ late," Zach announces from the recliner when Chris comes in at about nine o'clock.

"Busy at school," Chris says as he walks past Zach, plants a kiss on his forehead, and heads to his office.

Zach sits up straight in the recliner (more of a feat than he anticipated), and calls out, "Why are you _sweaty_?"

Zach stands in the living room and Chris comes out of his office. Their Western-style stand off starts, each of them at one end of the hallway, Chris looking too exhausted for much of a fight and Zach too riled up to leave him alive.

"We didn't have plans tonight," Chris explains, "So I figured I'd work late at the office."

"'At the office'?" Zach snaps. "You have a fucking office _right here_, and remember portable technology? That _still works_, believe it or not." The minute Zach says all that, he has to stop and wonder who this crazy person is and whether that _crazy person_ actually believes Chris would cheat.

Chris takes a few steps towards him and asks, with as much genuine astonishment as Zach's ever heard, "Are you really angry? Do you -- can you honestly imagine me fucking someone else and then coming home to you?"

He really can't. Even his most paranoid, insane nightmares involve Chris running off with some blonde, hugely-breasted girl in a miniskirt, but sex can't figure into the picture -- it's mostly a _Roman Holiday_-themed montage with big smiles and a Vespa. Oh, and Zach comically chasing behind them on his own evil Vespa with a large butterfly net.

They close the distance and hug it out silently.

*

"Great seats!" Kristen exclaims when they sit down, their backs crinkling against the _RESERVED_ print outs in the front row.

"They fucking better be -- my baby's got _tenure_," Zach replies. Chris had dragged him to the end-of-year faculty cabaret, mentioning that he had a tiny role and Zach had to see it, _had to had to had to_. Kristen came along for moral support because Chris would be backstage for most of the performance itself, being all encouraging and whatever.

Around hour two, Zach realizes he hasn't been at a show out in public and stayed for the entire run in maybe twenty years or so. As he reflected on that, the MC (some economics guy doing a terrific deadpan, or maybe he really was dead inside) announced it was the final number and everyone should brace themselves for:

"Fresh from Wheeler Hall, it's _Doctor Pine and his Outlaws_."

Zach instantly sunk about a foot into his seat and hid his face in his hand. Kristen screamed in excitement and pulled Zach up again.

"He told me I had to keep your eyes open, _Clockwork Orange_ style," she shrieked.

"Oh my God oh my God oh my God this is not happening," Zach repeated as the floor began to vibrate from the bass of a song he hadn't heard in too, too many years.

And there were Chris' students that Zach had run into a few times over the past year, guys and girls clad in outfits too tight for their doughy, academic physiques and eliciting shrieks from the crowd --

Oh, no, the shrieks were for Chris, who emerged and had been glammed up in more eyeliner than Hot Topic sold in a year, one of Zach's own shirts being stretched out by Chris' broader and retardedly overdefined chest and arms, and jeans being held on by a belt that was going to retire at any moment and show even more of Chris' hipbones and _what the fuck_, they were almost _fifty_, this was _criminal_. George Clooney didn't pull this shit when he was their age… right?

So Chris had been cheating on him with choreography and lip syncing because there was _no way_ Chris could ever belt out anything like Adam Lambert, even if Zach really did give him f-f-fe-ver, f-fe-ver, yeah.

And, sure, it was pretty great, the narrative they had developed, Chris as some sort of ringleader with his students that got more confident and, therefore, sexier with every hideously inappropriate grind against each other (Chris, as always, untouchable, actually _standing on a chair_ at one point doing the bridge, those incomprehensible and mostly guttural shrieks of _want_, how did Zach _forget_ this song?!) Zach clutches Kristen and watches with his mouth open, his brain processing things slowly and hands chilling because -- because.

At the _yeah yeah yeah_s that stretch out with even more longing, Chris steps off the chair and of course, of fucking _course_, throws himself on his _knees_ in front of Zach and Kristen's chairs and bends in ways that are going to have him whining for _days_. He leans back on his heels, on his legs, stretching himself back until his shirt rides up and students are crowding around and screaming in Zach's _ears_ and Zach can see too much of that too smooth skin -- was there a name for it? Lower than the hips, that skin around the leg joint --

Zach almost shrieks along with the auditorium when Chris leans up and forward again (in time with the music, when did this guy get rhythm?), his hands sliding up Zach's open legs, his chest against the chair, his mouth a little too close for Zach's comfort, his eyes staring up and there's not even the pretense of singing along anymore. If Zach moves, he's sure he'll break into a billion pieces and come all at once and, and in any case, everything will be over and this can't end, this song needs to continue and Zach needs every nerve in his body to stay this alive forever.

Oh, wait, Chris does have some kind of grip on words because Zach is sure he just mouthed _baby you're mine_ and for fuck's sake, he has to bite his lip as Adam Lambert, somewhere in time, elongated the _mine_ in a way that had Zach's body shaking from all this tension and no release valve in sight.

As quickly as he'd thrown himself down, Chris jumps up again and actually _finishes the song_, this time just a foot from Zach and mouthing along _just to him_, alternating between staring him down and being too turned on by himself to look at Zach, too. _Give you my f-f-fever, my f-fever_ and he runs his hands down his chest and Zach wants to scream _there are people here!_ but also pin him to the ground and make him try to reach those notes for real.

Zach vaguely notices the students on stage, because it's the finale, encouraging everyone to come down and dance and they do, thankfully. The song ends and Chris is there, on his knees again in front of Zach, gasping and shit, Chris is going to _regret this_. (Momentary relief: Zach can see knee pads outlined under Chris' jeans -- he _has_ to look at Chris' knees because even just a tiny glance at his hips or his stomach or anything will definitely lead to some kind of sex on the auditorium floor in front of too many people.)

"Not even going to help me up?" Chris asks, the song apparently on loop for the rest of their lives and yeah, undergrads are never going to stop dancing around them, are they?

Zach releases Kristen and it takes all of his energy to stand up, help Chris to his feet, and pull him in for an embarrassingly graphic kiss that is, of course, encouraged by all these stupid kids who are leaving Berkeley forever and _love_ their English professor or whatever Chris is to them -- he was a starship captain once but is now just a good guy who likes to embarrass his boyfriend-husband-best friend, because if he can't marry him and embarrass him with a tuxedo-painted T-shirt, this is just as good, right?

Zach pulls him in, grips every inch of him he can, and crushes their mouths together until Chris laughs and really, neither of them are going to catch their breath again.

*

  
**Indiana Jones and the Temple of Lame**

Chris sleeps heavy; when he was twelve, he slept through an earthquake that apparently shook him out of bed onto the floor before his parents managed to drag him (still sleeping) into a doorframe. So it takes something to wake him up once he's down for the count, basically, is what he's saying.

Zach _kicking him repeatedly_ fits the bill.

"Ow, ow, holy shitsicles, Zach!" Chris complains, curled up around his bruised thigh and teetering on the edge of the bed, arms outstretched to keep him from falling. Zach mutters something and twitches again, his leg spasming and--

"Fuck, you psycho!"

After the thud of impact, there's a three or four-second pause before Chris can hear Noah and Topanga coming in to investigate (the cat could give a shit); they huff into his hair and into his armpit and assure themselves that he's not injured, and then Noah sits down neatly because Zach's trained him way too well and he actually thinks he's getting a cookie at 2:53 in the morning. Topanga tries to climb on his lap.

"Chris?" Zach mumbles, bleary. "Wh're you?"

"I'm down _here_, where you _put me_," Chris tells him.

Zach's head appears; his hair, as always, is hilarious. "Wha?" he asks. It's actually pretty coherent for him.

"You kicked me out of bed," Chris explains, and nudges Topanga off his lap. She climbs back on.

"Mmm," Zach says. "'Ry."

"Sure, sure." This time Chris manages to get up before Topanga stages another usurpation of his lap. She whimpers and Chris relents, lifting her up onto the bed to curl up against the back of his knees.

"Nooo," Zach whines, probably a protest against dogs on the bed (which is just racist, since the cat's up here all the fucking time and usually curls up on Chris's fucking head like he's trying to suffocate him in a really passive-aggressive way), but he's still not in charge of his own vocabulary and Chris can safely ignore most of what he has to say. Sure enough, Zach grumbles for a few more seconds before allowing Chris to wrap himself around him, big-spoon-little-spoon style.

"So what were you dreaming about?" Chris asks Zach's neck, nose brushing against the hairline.

"Mmm. Indiana Jones," Zach says, and Chris laughs, thinking back all those years ago when there was some insane speculation that he might actually get that role someday.

"Really."

"Y'looked good with the hat. And the bullwhip. Hot." Zach makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, and his hands tighten around Chris's forearms. "We had to deal with Shia, though, that was ass."

"Shia -- the Beef?" Chris asks. He's never called that kid by his actual name; first because it annoyed everyone, then later because he couldn't remember his actual name. Now, more often than not, he forgets that his name _isn't_ Shia the Beef. "The Beef was our son?"

"Yeah, and he was such a pissant, too," Zach grumbles. "Like really whiny."

Chris considers this. "So you were Marion, in this dream."

"Yeah!" Zach mumbles, sounding enthusiastic -- or as enthusiastic as you can when you're not really conscious. Chris bites his lip, hard, and tries to memorize every aspect of this moment because he wants to remember it all for tomorrow morning.

They fall asleep.

*

  
**Conventioneers**

"So you won't come down here when _I_ ask you," Zach clarifies, "But when your best girlfriend--"

"When have you ever asked me?" Chris asks with honest bafflement, unslinging the dufflebag from his shoulder and dumping it on the bed. Even though Chris only comes down to LA when Zach is either bleeding from some manly wound received on a soundstage (three times in the past twelve years, plus that one kind of embarrassing time when he was just drunk and thought _pretending_ to have broken his leg was a good idea [which, no, it wasn't]) or when Zach promises extravagant sexual favors, they store changes of clothes here, toothbrushes and shampoo and soap and really not all that many hair products, even though Chris mocks him every time. So Zach has a sinking feeling that the duffle bag is full mostly of papers to grade and manuscripts to... whatever it is that Chris does for his professorial colleagues.

"Usually you just say, 'Princess, get your pasty ass on the next plane,' and pout at me for like an hour until I cave to your will," Chris continues.

"That is totally mostly not true," Zach argues. "But my point is, how long did _Livvy_ have to wheedle and cajole and -- oh my God, did she promise you sexual favors?"

Chris rolls his eyes, which is pretty rich considering the shitfit he pulled last month over those photoshopped pictures of Jacob and Zach during their latest movie shoot. "No, she did not."

"... Was she bleeding?" Zach asks hopefully.

"It's for a good cause, Zach, Christ. I thought you'd be excited, I'm finally going back into the maw of death." Chris smirks, then exaggeratedly corrects himself. "I mean, the celebrity machine."

"Going to a convention is not my idea of the celebrity machine," Zach argues. "It's more like the..." he can't think of a witty insult in the proper amount of time. "It's stupid."

"Zach," Chris says very seriously, taking him by the shoulders. "Olivia founded GeekGirl Cons five years ago, and if I remember correctly, _you_ were the guest of honor at the first one."

"Well," Zach starts, but yeah, he's got no leg to stand on here. The conventions donate their net profit (which is usually a lot, fangirls have some commercial power for realsies) to SPCALA, and Zach has a lot against his fellow human beings but give him an animal cause and he's like putty. It's like Olivia knows his weakness and has ruthlessly exploited it for her own, evil purposes.

"So there's an argument to be made," Chris continues, smoothing his hands up and down Zach's shoulders, and fuck him, that's really soothing, "That you took a few too many crazy pills with your breakfast this morning."

"I hope the fangirls eat you," Zach says, and Chris pulls him into a hug.

"Aww, honey. You know I'm always up for sexual experimentation. If you wanted to do some kind of group orgy, all you had to do was ask."

*

"Oh my _God_ \-- you look so cute!" is the first thing Olivia says to Chris when they enter the green room. "Like a real live professor." She gets up from the couch and wraps Chris up in a hug. "So since you didn't even bother to have some diva list of all the shit you wanted or whatever, I made up some stuff and the convention people got you M&amp;Ms with no blue colored M&amp;Ms, a bowlful of totally unbroken pretzels, and Fanta. Sound good?"

Zach scowls at her, but Chris is beaming like it's Christmas and Disneyworld all rolled into one. "Liv, how're you," he says in that sweet, mumbly way he gets around girls he used to date. Zach hopes he does it just to make them remember what a nice guy he was and cry themselves to sleep over the fact that Chris is now into dicks. Penises. Whatever. The point is, he once had to console Audrina Patridge in the bathroom of Nobu over Chris's lost love for her, and that was hilarious but also got tearstains all over his suit.

"I'm great. I'm amazed that you actually came to this. You do know it's like a _shitshow_ out there already, right?"

Chris looks a little apprehensive, but he shrugs. "As long as they all donated to the cause, I guess I should suck it up, right?"

"Brave boy. And smart move bringing your bodyguard," Olivia adds, turning to Zach. "Hey there, sailor." Zach allows himself to be embraced and examined. She frowns. "You okay? You look, I dunno. Kind of constipated."

"He's jealous over the fact you got me to come down to LA for the weekend," Chris explains in that super-helpful way of his.

"I'm not!" Zach protests, probably way too shrill for that to work. Olivia laughs.

"You so are! I thought maybe you were mad I didn't ask you to be one of the attendees or whatever."

"Please," Zach scoffs, "I've got better things to do today than sit on a stage and deal with questions about how hard it was to wax my eyebrows and what working with Nathan Fillion was really like."

"And yet you had time to sit backstage while _I_ sit on a stage," Chris comments.

"Plus, I seem to detect a note of dismissive attitude, there, Quinto," Olivia says.

This is another reason Zach is always secretly terrified whenever Chris meets up with an ex-girlfriend; the ones who don't cry tend to be smart, and the smart ones really enjoy ganging up on Zach. It's like Mean Girls Gone Hollywood. "I'm just saying, this is kind of the thing you do when you need the money."

"Zach, what was the last movie you filmed?" Olivia asks.

Fuck. "In my defense, it was a _lot_ of money," Zach says.

"Uh-huh. I'm just saying, you got paid for four months of shooting a sci-fi movie about saving the sun called ['Daylight Savings Time,'](http://xkcd.com/673/) and Chris here is getting -- well, he's donating it, but he's _earning_ $5,000 for about an hour's worth of work. I'd say he might be worth more on a per-hour scale than you right now."

"How much did _you_ make in _your_ last movie?" Zach asks, and he knows he sounds snippy but he really, honestly can't help it.

"You mean the one I directed, or the one I produced?" she asks smugly, and Chris laughs and laughs and eats M&amp;Ms at them both.

*

Zach bites at his left thumbnail as he paces just outside the curtainy area behind the stage, his right hand cupping his left elbow. He looks a lot younger than he is -- he looks as young as Olivia remembers him when they first met, barely thirty and already dealing with his first ulcer. Olivia sits on her director's chair and watches him go back and forth, back and forth, his sneakers making a very faint squeak with every pivot of his foot. Maybe Zach has figured out another way to deal with his (mostly self-inflicted) stress, but she doubts it.

She can hear Chris answering some question from the audience, an appreciative chuckle, some catcalls -- it's been forty-five minutes and security hasn't been dispatched once. So, put this in the "actually not a horrible idea" column.

"So how many ulcers are you working on now?" Olivia asks on Zach's next pass. "Last I checked you had, I don't know. Three?"

"I'm on a new medication," Zach says, offhand and irritable. It's so cute.

"You do know that I'm not actually going to even _attempt_ to get into his pants," she says.

That stops the pacing, at least. "What? No. I mean, no, I didn't think you were."

"Uh-huh."

"For reals," Zach insists, but he's smiling for the first time since he walked in, so that's a kind of progress.

"Well, it's not like I could compete with the amazing Zachary Quinto, despoiler of twinks everywhere."

"Oh my God," Zach moans, burying his face in his hands. "I hate TMZ and want it to die."

"By the way, I totally had to rearrange the convention schedule so Jacob would come over for his panel on Saturday. I mean, I wouldn't want you guys all meeting in the hallways somewhere and him and Chris having some kind of showdown, High Noon style. Even though, if they ever want to do that? Let me know and I'll totally sell tickets to that shit."

"You're so hateful," Zach says, "It almost makes me want to like you."

Olivia laughs. "But not enough to overwrite the fact that Chris's and my ladyparts once touched, right?"

But Zach actually looks delighted. "Oh my God, you call them his ladyparts, too?"

"Duh? I mean, come on. Chris Pine is the biggest lesbian in all the land. He went to Berkeley, he wears plaid, he has a really twisted love of Home Depot," she says, ticking the points off on her fingers. "Plus, I heard he may or may not own a pair of Crocs. Lesbian."

"Right! Lesbian! I don't know why he keeps getting offended!" Zach says, pulling up another director's chair and collapsing into it. "And what is with his obsession over his nail beds?"

"God, he still does that?" Olivia asks, honestly kind of horrified. "I mean, don't get me wrong, he took me to his _personal manicurist_ once and it was like a religious experience, but still."

When Chris came back ten minutes later, only slightly wild around the eyes, he found Zach and Olivia leaning in toward one another, flicking through Zach's iPhone collection of Terrible Chris Bedhead that he kept in a special album.

"Oh my God, we're leaving immediately," Chris decides, and grabs Zach by the wrist and hauls him out of his chair.

Zach waves at Olivia as he's dragged away. "I'm in town all this week filming! Call me! We'll do lunch!"

Olivia waves back and is pretty sure that they're out of earshot before she starts laughing.

*

  
**Photoshop**

There is a long, long, _long_ silence while Zach looks at the picture. Stan leans back in his chair and waits, chewing his gum loudly. Zach's pretty sure he should find that annoying but right now he's trying to block the litany of _shit shit shit shit_ that's reverberating in his head.

The worst part -- and wow, there are so many worst parts, actually, but this is the _worst_ worst part -- is that it's not even a particularly good photoshopped picture. Technology has come a long way in the past few years and it's pretty easy to alter pictures with a few clicks of a mouse. But whoever this guy is didn't even try that hard. It's a little insulting.

"So we've got plenty of room to sue, here," Stan says. He's leaning so far back Zach wonders if he might just tip over. "I mean, obviously. Right?"

"Jacob's been photoshopped to have two left hands," Zach replies, "One of which is not his skin tone. So yeah, to answer your unspoken question, this did not happen."

Stan snaps forward, his chair a little bit like a catapult. "Okay, so _this_ didn't happen. Did anything _like this_ ever happen?"

Zach glares at him. "No, I have not fucked any younger version of myself, Stan. I'll call you tomorrow about whether or not I want to sue. In the meantime--" he stands up.

Stan snorts. "Yeah. If you survive the evening, give me a call."

*

Chris isn't mad. Chris doesn't get mad about things like this, because he's totally not jealous, at all. He understands the realities of working in movies but he trusts Zach implicitly and that's why he's not mad. At all.

The thing where he breaks a coffee mug after putting it down on the counter is completely and totally unrelated.

"I'm fine, God," Chris tells Zach, who's fussing over him like he severed an artery. "See, it's stopped bleeding and everything."

"You should get stitches or something," Zach says, looking worried and still suspiciously guilty.

"I think I'll survive," Chris says, and Zach sighs.

"So, when you said you weren't upset about the photo."

"I'm _not_ upset about it. It's a photoshopped photo of you and Jacob doing... whatever, it's fake. I get it."

"...okay? But you still sound like you're mad. Not mad!" Zach corrects himself immediately. "Uh, disappointed? Maybe?"

Chris licks his lips and leans against the counter. He's not mad, he tells himself again. He's _not._ He's just...

"I'm concerned," he decides. "Because obviously whoever _made_ that picture thinks, I don't know, that you're a cute couple or something. And so far you haven't exactly denied it."

Zach looks confused. Being in a relationship with an actor is totally balls, because not even Chris can tell sometimes when Zach is actually confused and when he's channeling his inner moron. "Denied... that I think Jake is hot?"

"So you think he's hot?" Chris asks. His voice goes kind of high at the end and that's probably not a good sign, especially since Zach loses his confused look and starts grinning.

"Well," he says, "He _did_ play a younger version of me back in the day." Zach slinks toward Chris and wraps his arms around Chris's waist, ignoring the fact that Chris was holding his body stiffly and uncooperatively. "I mean, the only thing hotter than having sex with myself would be having sex with a younger version of myself, am I right?"

"You know, when you dressed up as Narcissus that one year for Halloween I really did think it was a joke," Chris mutters, not even remotely softened by the way Zach was resting his chin on Chris's shoulder.

"Yeah, but you're the pool," Zach murmurs, nonsensical and sweet, against his ear.

*

  
**Broken Arm**

"_Home_," Chris moans when they walk through the door.

"Welcome back," Zach says distractedly. "Now get to the shower, I'll be there in a minute."

"Wait, but -- come on, let's nap --"

"You smell like a hospital and I'm not having it in our home, so: shower and I'll be right there." Chris glances over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom and sees Zach cutting open a flat, oblong box with his keys in the living room. Does he want to know? Probably not.

In the bathroom, Chris finds everything a little more difficult with his right arm in a cast past his elbow, and he really regrets his unconscious system of alternating pull over layers with button down layers. After a few minutes of looking like a moron, he sits on the closed toilet seat, pants undone but not off, and waits for Zach.

Zach walks in holding a plastic stool and a small box labeled _Shower-dri_, and laughs when he sees Chris, who looks a little defeated by his clothes. "What's the stool for?" Chris asks.

"Uh, you," Zach replies. He puts it in the shower, gives Chris a tiny smile, and urges him to stand up. "You sit, I help you shower, we watch bad TV for the rest of the day."

"Zach, I don't need help to _shower_ \--" Chris protests as Zach starts taking his clothes off.

"Of course you don't," Zach replies. His eyebrows are arched way, way up in that _I'm **so** serious -- about laughing at you!_ way he has.

"Look, sleeves are difficult and stuff, but once they're off --"

"Right, so let's talk about how this happened, exactly?" Zach asks as he has Chris turn around so he can pull a shirt off his shoulders. "Something about tripping in your office? And I found a gummy worm in your hair at the emergency room so: _what_?"

"My fucking _kids_," Chris groans as Zach finally reaches his last layer and tosses the shirts in a hamper, "Decided it was that time of year when they'd move everything around in the office, you know, because thigh-high stacks of books I can actually navigate around would be too dangerous."

"Skip to the gummy worm and tell me it's not some new kink you're into."

"Gross, man -- no, I think I must have picked that up while I was _dying_ on the _floor_."

Zach unceremoniously shoves his pants and boxers off and Chris steps out of them, feeling _really_ naked for once and not just, well, naked. "So I can take it from --"

"Yeah, no," Zach says. He turns around and starts the water, then turns back and breaks open the _Shower-dri_ box.

"That's just a plastic bag with a cord around the top -- you could've just used bags and duct tape."

Zach pulls the sleeve over the cast on Chris' arm and cinches the top tightly around his arm. The look Zach gives him answers the question, but Chris is still kind of disappointed they couldn't struggle hilariously with plastic bags and duct tape. Zach reaches out and tests the water temperature, then takes off his three shirts and tosses them on the toilet lid. "All right, sit down."

"You're so cold!" Chris says as he carefully steps into the shower and sits on the stool that Zach must have assembled in the living room while he was here not getting undressed. "It's like I'm in a _real_ hospital. You should quit acting and --"

"Nope," Zach replies. "Now what did you _trip_ over?" Zach pulls down the hand shower attachment and sprays Chris in the face before moving the attachment all over his body. "If I were a real nurse, I probably couldn't do that with as much glee as I feel right now." Chris sputters and opens his eyes, and in front of him Zach, yes, is grinning a little too much.

"I tripped over a stack of books and our big clear money jar -- man, you should have seen how gross it was, like, the bone --"

Zach sprays him in the face again and whines, "Shut up, oh my God that's _disgusting_."

"Compound fracture! I've never had one of those before!"

"Does it hurt?"

"Nah," Chris says bravely, unconsciously waving the cast arm around as if to prove that. Zach seems to believe him. "Paul almost cried when he saw it and like, kept staring at the bone when he called the --"

"Shut up -- wait, _Paul_ was there?" Zach asks. "I don't like Paul."

"I'd still be flopped on the floor with a broken arm if it wasn't for Paul!"

"I liked Paul when he was homely and you didn't care about him," Zach says. "Now he's so -- clean, and waxing his brows, and dressing well and it's just --"

"Yeah, I've inspired Paul to new levels of academic sexiness," Chris informs him. "It just made sense: why be one of the ugly, squinty nerds when with _so_ little effort, you can be totally hot?"

"Except he _is_ aware your Freddie Prinze, Jr. isn't going to fall in love with his artsy nerd girl, right? I mean, I totally am that mean girl from _She's All That_ or any other teen movie ever --"

"Like _Mean Girls_? Don't spray m--"

"But you're a dumb jock who loves me so it's not happening, frumpy Paul."

"You should fix him up with Jacob," Chris says. "They're --"

"He's not Jacob's type," Zach informs him sharply. "Jacob's only occasionally bi, and Paul's not an occasion."

"Poor Paul," Chris sighs. "Hey, are you done wasting water yet? How about some actual soap or something?"

Zach gives him the hand shower attachment and grabs Chris' shampoo from a shelf in the corner of the tub. "I was rinsing the hospital smell off you -- and don't you dare spray me, I'm still wearing my expensive jeans."

"Yessir." Chris arches up towards Zach as shampoo is massaged into his hair and Zach's nails scratch lightly into his scalp. No wonder Noah is fucking owned for life.

"Chris, you're purring," Zach says.

"Shut up, I'm not -- but if I did purr, that doesn't mean you should stop. My hair still feels dirty. Maybe another lather?"

"I don't think you have enough hair to warrant another lather."

"Thanks, buddy. Friend. Person not getting a single --"

"Okay, you broke your arm and were a big boy about it, so maybe you can have one more lathering up of your manfully sensitive scalp," Zach sighs.

"Yay," Chris says, arching again towards Zach.

"You know, it's nice that your hair is pretty awful," Zach says casually.

Chris opens an eye and tries to look up at Zach, who tilts his head as his fingers work all around his 'awful' hair.

"I mean, just think about what life would be like if you had hair to obsess over like I do."

"Uh, both bathrooms would be full of hair product and not just one of them?"

"No! Like, if you had really nice hair, I think we would have to compete, and we'd be constantly at each other's throats, and then when we got old and it all started to go to shit, there'd always be that little 'hurrah' of spite, you know? Whereas you like my totally awesome hair and I like that I don't have to compete with yours."

"So I should shave my head?"

"Oh no, don't -- people will think you're balder than you are. You're graying gracefully, it's really nice."

Chris stays quiet for a few seconds, rinses the shampoo off his head with the attachment in his hand, and hears Zach go for his own conditioner.

"Yeah, there's no possible way you _ever_ could have been anything but outrageously gay, Zach," Chris says eventually.

"I could totally get a lady if I wanted," Zach replies as he works the conditioner in and lets it sit. "With these eyes? Please."

"Yeah, you could _get_ one, but not _keep_ one," Chris says.

"Because I won't lie and tell you your hair is gorgeous and like a million cascading waterfalls? It gets close when you grow it to that Captain Kirk length, but you like your hair short most of the time, so whatever. I like your hair, but the rest of you is _way_ more attractive." As an afterthought, Zach adds, "And your personality's okay, I guess."

"Zach," Chris whines, "Come on, let me win one, I'm totally injured and shit."

"Jesus, if I had a scab as annoying as you under my cast, I'd peel it the hell off and grow myself a new husband."

Chris looks up, hair full of conditioner and with a huge grin on his face. "Did you hear that?"

"What? The sound of your follicles crying because you're moisturizing them for once?"

"You knew I was feeling emasculated so you called me your husband! Not your wife!"

"Next thing you know, maybe you'll even get the vote."

"And we're back to my vagina."

Zach sprays him in the face with the attachment before moving on to his hair.

*

  
**Star Wars: Revenge of the Nerd**

Zach wakes up to whimpering and a wet nose on his arm. "Noah, you -- hey girl," he says groggily, because it's Topanga who has her paws up on his side of the bed and nudges his arm impatiently. "What is it?"

Once he's been awake for three seconds, Zach turns over to Chris. Chris sleeps like a corpse for the most part, but Zach sees him clutch his pillow and bunch the comforter in his arms like he's holding on for dear life. His eyes are squeezed shut and he mumbles tiny words like 'lava' (lava?) and 'one' (one what?) and finally a nice James Earl Jonesish _nooooooooooooo_ before Zach shakes him awake. Topanga jumps up on the bed and helps, but jumps right off when Chris yells himself awake.

"Dream," Chris gasps.

"Yeah, they tend to happen when you sleep."

Chris punches his pillow a few times, grabs the one that he had thrown on the floor, and lies on his back. Topanga jumps back up, but Zach shoves her off and curls an arm across Chris' chest.

"Stop thinking, go to sleep," Zach mutters into Chris' shoulder. Topanga sneaks back on and stays at the end of the bed, where Zach doesn't care enough to push her off.

"'Kay," Chris says.

"I mean it."

"Sure."

Zach closes his eyes, but he can feel Chris' heart still beating like he's sprinted to the grocery store and back four times because he keeps getting the wrong kind of blue corn chips -- or something.

"Do you want to _talk_ about it, because it's not like I have to leave for the airport in four hours or anything," Zach sighs.

Chris wraps his arms around Zach too tightly and says into his hair, "So Paul just got a paper he wrote for my class a few years ago published in this journal that's too elite for even for me and people from the Ivies keep calling me so I can talk him up and he's totally the scholar I want to be and he's good with his students and his dissertation might actually change how we look at F. Scott Fitzgerald forever and his dissertation beard is cool on him so of course we were on a lava planet and I was screaming about him being the chosen one and I _enjoyed_ watching him burn up from the lava and cutting him up with a light saber and then you were dead and pregnant, and Jimmy Smits was there, too, but dressed in a suit so it became a _West Wing_ thing and you were Josh during the season one finale where Josh gets shot so I was Donna because we were totally in love but you got _shot_, Zach, and you were in surgery forever, and --"

"All right, you need some Xanax." Zach tries to sit up but Chris wraps his arms around him tighter. "Okay, will you settle for Topanga up here with us?"

"Don't let me dream about bad dialogue and lava planets, okay?"

"Your mom's a lava planet."

Chris laughs and loosens his grip ever so slightly on Zach's ribcage.

"Oxygen, I missed you," Zach groans. He adjusts himself so he's partially lying on Chris, one arm still around his waist and the other curled under their pillows. "Go to sleep, okay, and remember that Paul will probably die alone in his sad and cold East Coast apartment within five lonely years."

"He told me he's seeing someone --"

Zach kisses Chris' shoulder and collarbone and the side of his neck, taking his time in muttering, "Yeah, but they're not better looking than you, or me, and if fucking _Paul_ managed to get someone hotter than either of us, I will buy you a fucking house on a tropical fucking island, okay, and we'll have one of those outrageous ninety-foot-wide beds with their own zip code, and the dogs --"

"Noooooo, lava island," Chris whines.

"A whole Xanax and I'll call you in sick."

But Chris buries his head in his pillow next to Zach's head and closes his eyes (not screws them shut), and Zach is pleased at having _talked Chris unconscious_. Topanga hops off the bed because Zach appears to have things in control and, truth be told, she probably has better things to do.

*

  
**Nauta, Nautae**

It was one of those things: since Zach had been living with an academic, his spite for books had at least doubled.

Books were the reason Chris left bed; books dragged Chris away from acting; books filled Chris' brain with stupid ideas ranging from _Kirk and Spock meet at a strip club called The Garden of Venus_ (seriously, Shatner?) to _the government of 19th century London vacillated between the idea of making the telephone system a state monopoly and allowing competition between private companies_.

Books sucked.

Zach still read them, though, like one day when he was finally reading JK Rowling's latest, _Ralph the Shark Shouldn't Die_. As he was curled in the recliner in a pair of sweats, Chris was across from him on the couch, home early because of one thing or another. Neither of them cared much -- it was enough to have snuck away just to relax for an afternoon.

Except Chris kept talking -- no, not talking, which wouldn't have been annoying since that was pretty much the cornerstone of their lives. Chris was mumbling to himself, too low for Zach to understand but too loud for Zach to ignore.

"What the fuck are you saying?" Zach finally asks. "Naphtha? Like _termites_?"

"What?" Chris asks. "No, I'm -- I'm just reviewing vocab. For Latin."

Zach puts his book on his stomach and raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you take Latin?"

"I'm auditing," Chris beams. "Staff can take a class for free so I'm taking Latin."

"Say something to me in Latin."

"Uh. I can't yet."

Zach turns his disappointment on full blast, then shrugs and goes back to his book. Chris does the same.

A few more minutes pass and Zach realizes Chris is _taking another language_ behind his _back_.

"You're taking _Latin_ behind my back," Zach says. "What else are you taking? _Norwegian_?"

"Didn't go for Greek, did you, that'd just be too obvious, I guess," Chris says, his eyes still on the book. "Just Latin. And it's only like, two hours a week so --"

"But now you're that creepy old guy in a Latin 101 class with a bunch of freshmen and -- you're not going to study with them, are you?"

Chris laughs and doesn't dignify the question with an answer, but does ask, "Do you want me to review in another room or can you handle me and this sexy dead tongue here?"

"Oh, god, whatever, see if I care."

It's quiet for a few more minutes, but Zach thinks that if Chris wanted to really learn this new language, he'd find some way of absorbing it all without sounding like a moron.

"Seriously, what are you saying? Those aren't words."

"They're diphthongs, you ass," Chris replies. "N_auuu_ta, naut_ayyyy_, naut_ahhhhh_, naut_aaaaam_, nau --"

"Okay, what does that mean?" Zach asks.

"Uh, sailor. In the nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, and the ablative singular."

"…I hate you."

Chris blows him a kiss and starts with the plurals. Zach reads the fourth sentence on the page for the ninth time and sighs loudly. He digs his phone out of his pocket and curls on his side in the recliner so he doesn't have to look at Chris.

"Hey baby, what are you up to? We should do something. Are you at work? You're _not_, that's -- wait, why are you in LA? You said you'd be here another two days -- look, it's an eight-hour drive with traffic, so I -- no don't put me on hold --"

Zach looks over his shoulder, because Chris has just begun speaking non-douche again.

"Hey Kris, it's Chris," he says sweetly into his phone. "Nothing much, what about you? _What_? You don't say -- no, we're not playing a prank on you, but you and I are playing one on Zach because --"

"Kristen he's speaking Latin!" Zach yells from the recliner. After some struggling, Zach pulls himself out of the recliner and dives onto the couch, straddling Chris and trying to grab the phone from him. "He's driving me _crazy_, do you know how long I've been sitting here with a book on my crotch and he won't get the _hint_?!"

"Kris, talk to you later, love you --" Zach grabs Chris's face and pulls him up for a kiss, and moans slightly when Chris' hand reaches between his legs for the Latin book Zach was about to begin humping. Chris sits up and keeps Zach in his lap, puts the book gently on the floor, and takes a study break.

*

  
**Jacob and Topanga**

Chris rolled over in bed and opened his eyes at the sound of crinkling paper and a distinctly canine whimper when his arm flew out to smack Zach awake. Topanga was right next to him, Noah closer to the foot of the bed. "What're you two doing here?" he asked sleepily. He remembered the crinkling paper noise and sat up a few inches, finding the paper underneath his shoulder blade.

_Remember: in LA until Sunday. --Z._

"How could I forget," Chris asked Zach-in-the-paper. "No handjobs for 40 hours, dunno how I'll live. C'mon girl," he mumbled to Topanga, who edged closer to him. "We'll teach Mr. Man to leave us alone for some stupid awards, hm?"

He stroked her fur and raised an eyebrow when his hand brushed against another piece of paper tucked into Topanga's collar. He pulled it out and unfolded it.

_I'll never love you like he does. Because the bible says it's wrong. --T._

"Know what's else is wrong?" Chris asked Topanga as he crumpled the paper. "Starting sentences with conjunctions."

She looked at him for a moment, then closed her eyes again and nestled deeper into Zach's pillow and her paws.

"You know I'm right," he told her.

*

"You made it!" Jacob opened the door to his apartment and let Zach through, closing it firmly behind him. "No Chris? No dogs? How can you just pick up and leave the family like that?"

"_Easily_," Zach sighed. "Shut up, get over here." They hugged and Zach was still disconcerted at Jacob being as tall as he was and able to clap him on the shoulder in a real man hug without Zach having to bend down or anything. "Give me the tour -- are you staying for more than six months? Christmas is coming and the Quinto-Pine residence is serious about keeping its mailing list up to date."

"I _had_ to move," Jacob laughed. "I can't have girls climbing three storeys to my balcony anymore."

"How come no one ever did that for me?" Zach wondered, then oohed at the kitchen. "Sweetie, it's illegal to have this much counter space at your age. You're only going to have hideous amounts of unhygienic sex on it."

"If that doesn't make cooking more fun, then fuck it, it can't be done -- and this is my guest room aka where your geriatric ass is going to bunk down tonight." Jacob stepped inside and motioned to a tiny lock on the back of the doorknob. "Take a picture for Chris so he knows your virtue is safe, 'kay?"

"Absolutely not," Zach said as he peeked inside one of the bathrooms and nodded with approval. "It's good for him to be jealous of all the gorgeous boys that might steal me away from him."

"Just like it's good for your ulcer to plot revenge on all his sexy undergrads? Master bedroom!"

"Jacob, this is decadent," Zach said, a hand flying up to cover his mouth at the really exquisitely decorated room. "It says you care about decorating but aren't a total queen about it."

"Yeah, IKEA had a set up called exactly that so I figured, why not?" Jacob clapped his hands together and grinned, so obviously proud to have his surroundings approved of. "Lunch? Come on, let's get lunch. How about some lunch?"

"You're not cooking for me? I guess that means you've already broken in the kitchen."

*

Of course Chris was invited to that award show where Zach and Jacob's new movie was nominated -- he was always invited, supposedly, but it was spring break and he had papers to catch up on. So he, _for once_, sat in the recliner, Topanga at his feet, and graded.

The pre-show, a note on the fridge informed him, started at 4 on ABC. 4:10 rolled around and Chris looked around, stretched and yawned, and looked at the TV. Eventually, he consulted with Topanga and decided, yes, they would disturb their quiet just a little bit by turning on the TV and laughing at Zach and that little shit Jacob.

(Who Chris totally loved, of course, and it was nice of him to offer Zach a place to crash for the overnight stay, and it was sweet they still stayed so close even 10 years after _Star Trek_.)

*

Jacob and Zach arrived on the red carpet together and the under-the-breath commentary began immediately. Chris usually pretended at these events that he was Above It All and barely noticed anything, but Jacob claimed Zach was one of the few people he felt comfortable enough to be a little bitch around.

"Oh my God," Zach said, clutching Jacob's elbow. "Can Brad's beard get longer."

"Do you mean Angie? Because yes, I think she's eating her children and using their bones for higher heels."

Zach laughed and added, "You don't know, gosh, okay, secret time."

"I love secrets, tell me tell me."

"It's not a fun one, but a personal one." Jacob gave him a look and Zach shrugged. "So, when I first started working, finally, I was your age, about 24. Fresh out of college, so utterly gay and that kind of bothered me more than anything, more than it had in college since, you know."

"Yeah, college is so insulated, it -- yeah, I know."

"Right, so I was a fucking _seat filler_ at the Oscars one year --"

"No fucking way," Jacob laughed -- actually, he howled a little, which was more annoying, truth be told.

"Yeah, a _seat filler_! It was work!"

"Tell me how many miles you walked in the West Hollywood snow, Gramps, your life is _so hard_."

"Oh my God, you little shit, I'm trying to bare my soul here!" Jacob grinned at him and Zach took that as an _I'm shutting up SORRY_ grin. "_Anyway_ \-- it was the year Brad and George Clooney's first movie, _Ocean's 11_ came out and --"

"This isn't going where I think it's going, is it," Jacob asked. "No, please tell me it _is_ going where I think it is."

"Yeah… I kind of told them I admired them for being my gay idols. _Even though_ I then saw Brad walk off to be with his _wife_. I felt like an ass."

"I love you, Zach," Jacob said with a hand between Zach's shoulder blades. "You are so fucking ridiculous and _good_, I just. I fucking love you, man."

"Jacob! Zach! Jacob! Jacob!" the first cluster of reporters called out, and Zach led the way to the cutting block, his hand patting Jacob on the back and then slipping into his pockets.

*

Chris heard Zach's smooth _Hello_ come from the TV and some Joan Rivers wannabe shriek out Zach and Jacob's names, so he set the netbook aside to watch them on TV. Zach's hands slipped into his pockets, but Chris saw Jacob's hand snake up and appear on Zach's right shoulder, Jacob leaning in to hear the questions.

"We're so proud of this movie," Jacob began.

"We are, but Jacob is really the astonishing part of it," Zach interrupted. "I've known this kid, god, almost half his life at this point and he just astonishes me in everything -- every project he does, and working with him so closely in this particular movie that was so close to my _own_ heart --"

"Oh my God, shut up," Jacob said in a perfect impression of Zach.

"It's so true, I knew it since we were in pointy ears together," Zach crooned at him. "I knew you'd be amazing then and amazing now and amazing always."

"Topanga, are you watching this?!" Chris asked. "He's _blushing_! And your dad is such a -- don't tell him I got upset, okay, girl?"

She scampered up to the TV to watch Zach and then looked over at Chris, who rolled his eyes.

"Oh, _now_ you care about him, huh? You should start showing affection if you don't want him to leave you for that other puppy." Chris sighed and pat his lap, which she gladly jumped into. "Projecting much, huh?" She whimpered, which Chris took as agreement.

"Zach Zach Zach!" a voice on the TV shrieked and Chris and Topanga looked up. Noah was still half-asleep and probably wouldn't acknowledge Chris except for food and walks until Zach rturned.

There she was, the star of a few too many of his fantasies from the age of 13 until… whenever he stopped watching _Boy Meets World_. Danielle Fishel. _Topanga_.

"Hey girl," Chris said excitedly. "Look! That's the lady you're named after!"

Danielle Fishel burst into the interview and Zach nearly collapsed with laughter, but luckily _Jacob_ held him up (and Jacob laughed, too, like he had met Chris' beloved dog more than a dozen times in the past ten years).

"_Zach_," she gasped, holding a microphone up and adjusting her criminally absurd tube dress. "It's been _so long_."

"Dani," Zach laughed as he went over to embrace her.

"Has he told you why we're soulmates?" she asked the reporter they had been speaking to, who had no idea.

"I love you, Dani, I do, but you should be talking to Chris, who I _hope is watching_ \--" Zach looked right into a camera and grinned excitedly and pointed to Danielle. "Look who I found for you!"

"Zach's boyfriend -- husband -- wait, are you two married yet?" she asked, and Zach shook his head. "Anyway, _Chris_ named his _dog_ after me and she is the most gorgeous thing in the _world_ \-- do you have pictures, Zach?"

And that was when Zach nudged Jacob aside, took out his phone, and began to flash photos of Topanga and Noah and the four of them and their stupid life on cable TV. Chris had to dig in the cushions of the recliner for his own phone, upsetting his grading and dinner and causing Noah to give him a very dignified and annoyed eyebrow from the other couch.

*

"God, he is going to _kill me_, I hope he's not -- oh no," Zach laughed as he tapped his phone's screen a few times. There was a text from Chris and he laughed some more.

"Chris just texted me to say _Hi Danielle, have you dumped Cory yet?_" They laughed and Zach added, "And here's another text -- aww, he loves me!" Zach grinned into a camera and almost shouted, "I'll be home tomorrow and _remember to walk Noah_!"

"Oh my gosh, he knows, Zach, come on, let's get you two over to E! with the other beautiful people."

"Did you hear that, Chris?" Zach asked the camera. "Turn to E! Oh, and I guess other people, too! Everyone watch E!"

"You just ruined _Access Hollywood_'s day," Jacob laughed as he followed them to another clearing of cameras and reporters.

"I'm surprisingly okay with that," Zach replied.

*


	3. Oscar Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from Oscar night in the years 2010 and 2030 -- where it all began, and 20 years later.
> 
> by screamlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my phenomenal co-writer leupagus and the ridiculously amazing waldorph.

For all that the Oscars are just like every other awards show (but shittier because there's nothing to eat during the 16-hour ceremony), it's also a sharp reminder to Zach that he's not a movie star. Not yet. His car zips away and he's ushered into the chaos of the red carpet, where he immediately hears someone whisper, "Look, it's Sylar!"

He's not here to promote anything (can he still promote a movie that's been out on DVD for four months? Or something that hasn't even been really announced yet?). It's really just a matter of getting to the end of the damn carpet, because all his movie friends were there to promote their upcoming him-less movies, and all his television friends weren't invited, which leaves Zach slowly trudging past names he knows, looking all the time for someone he _actually_ knows.

The crowd shifts slightly to accommodate a woman's _ridiculous_ train and in the space between, Zach's eyes meet Chris's. They grin simultaneously and Chris begins the run over, but he gets slammed in the chest by a guard or something to avoid stepping on the train. Zach takes a few steps forward, laughing into the hand covering his mouth.

"So," Chris says when they're together again, "I watched _Heroes_, uh, the season finale, they say?" Zach nods and Chris laughs. "Anyway, just felt like letting you know it was probably _the worst hour of my life_. Like, the show itself is only what, 45 minutes? I didn't even fast forward through the commercials -- I used the breaks to cry."

"Cry for _me_?" Zach asks, just a little coy and smirky because Chris _started_ it with the hand on his arm that gives no indication of dropping back into a pocket anytime soon.

"Well, yeah. Okay, crying for so many reasons: crying for you, crying because Hayden's there, crying because they cut your hair like -- uh, like that short guy -- just so many tears, man."

Zach laughs and he feels a strange smile pushing its way onto his face -- it reaches his eyes first and he's not entirely sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

"I missed you, you know," Zach says before he can stop himself. He looks away and then looks to Chris again, who is still holding onto his arm and has a pretty indecipherable look on his face. "Okay, see, if you showed this kind of complexity of emotion in _anything_ you did for Trek, we'd be here for you and not some stupid _technical_ awards."

"Tech awards are really important, Zach," Chris says with his eyebrows knit together very seriously. "They're the absolute rock bottom of Academy acknowledgement. It's literally the _least_ they can do to show us we didn't completely suck."

"Speak for yourself. I was awesome. Remember how I shaved my eyebrows? That's going to get me the Hilary Swank Fug-it-Up Oscar for the next movie."

"The next movie?" Chris asks.

"The _next movie_," Zach repeats. "You know. That little sequel we'll be filming a week after never? You'll be playing an asshole and I'll be the --"

"Right. Of course." Chris gives him a small smile and then grabs his wrist, tugging him toward the rest of the carpet.

*

"Chris. Wake up. Chris. Wake up. Chris. Wake up. Chris. Wake up. Chris. Wake up. Chris. Wake up."

Zach can do this all day, but it would really fucking behoove Chris to wake the hell up because their 20th anniversary doesn't roll around every day and Zach sure as _hell_ doesn't make breakfast every Friday. Or ever, really.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?" Chris moans. An arm flies up and covers his face. Zach sighs. Chris lifts the arm slightly and peeks out at Zach, who's standing at the edge of the bed with a tray full of awesome. "Happy anniversary, Zach."

"It's okay. I already castrated you while you slept."

"_And_ I get breakfast? Oh boy," Chris replies sleepily.

"Sit up and take your damn tray already."

Chris sighs loudly and sits up against the headboard. Zach puts the tray down and Chris ninjas him into a kiss, grabbing the sides of his face the minute the tray is down and pulling him in before he can say something sassy. Chris pushes their foreheads together and keeps him there for a moment before opening his eyes to look at Zach. "Thanks," he says a little too seriously for Zach's taste. "Now get back in this bed and never leave, okay?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Zach grins.

*

"You didn't bring a date," Zach states when they're stuck in some kind of gridlock in the middle of the carpet.

"I didn't get a plus one on my invite, did you?" Chris asks.

"That was my totally subtle way of seeing whether you were actually dating any of the ninety women you've been photographed with," Zach replies. "And before your ego spirals out of control, you should know that it's still kind of impossible to Google photos of myself without finding you, too."

Chris laughs and replies, "Olivia was real, but it didn't work out. She called her cunt the Enterprise; it kind of creeped me out."

"She did _not_."

"No, but it's funnier than saying, 'I was an asshole and she's too smart to stick around.'" Chris nudges Zach and asks, "What about you? Seeing anyone?"

"Not for a while. It fizzled out."

"Sorry, man."

"Yeah, sorry about Olivia. I've met her before; she seemed really cool."

"You totally fail at this whole 'consoling a friend after a break up' thing," Chris laughs. "You're supposed to tell me how awesome I am within _minutes_ of a break up, and not wait two months to take me out for a beer."

"Except I know you're hopelessly broken, so it probably _was_ entirely your fault," Zach says.

"What about my consolation beer?"

"Why would you want beer bloat? Maybe a consolation scotch --"

"Fuck, a consolation daiquiri for all I care," Chris says, and looks away and shoves his hands into his pockets. Zach raises an eyebrow that sinks quickly when Chris asks, "But _where were you_, Zach?"

"Sorry," Zach says. "I mean that." He does, and he wonders if his face is giving away how hard he's trying to be sincere, and whether that trying invalidates the sincerity, or --

Chris's hand tightens over the small of Zach's back and things seem to have gotten very awkward very quickly in this very tight press of people. Chris points off to the side and says, "Look, it's Zefron and that girl he's totally not fucking. Think we have a chance with them?"

"Oh my God, Zac isn't even twenty-_five_."

"Just how you like them?"

"Actually, no, but I don't care. Let's do it."

*

Zach gets up to open their bedroom door because one of the dogs (and he can hazard a guess which one Chris chose to bring to LA) had scratched incessantly at the door and then began to bark. When Topanga runs in, Chris coos, "Here's my girl to wish us a happy anniversary!" The tray had migrated to the floor earlier, so Topanga saw no reason to _not_ jump onto the bed and flop down across Chris's chest. Zach rolls his eyes and slides back under the sheets.

"Baby, you're so smart," Chris continues as he scratches her behind the ears. "You probably heard the _awful_ sounds the bad man was getting out of me and came to see if I was in trouble. We should get you a show on Animal Planet."

"We should get _you_ on Animal Planet," Zach growls nonsensically at them.

"He's just jealous, baby, don't listen to him," Chris tells Topanga. "You _did_ need to come with us alllllllllll the way to Los Angeles just for a weekend, didn't you? Didn't you?"

"Topanga," Zach says. He leans over and whispers into her ear, "If you leave now, I will continue to feed you twice a day, okay?"

Topanga turns her head and licks the side of Zach's face.

"I quit," Zach sighs as he flops onto his back and Chris laughs. He turns onto his side, away from Chris, and takes as much of the sheets as he can. "Just wake me up when you need some more menial chores done or whatever, it's not like I --"

Zach looks over his shoulder when he feels Chris move and watches Topanga rush off the bed. One of Chris's arms wraps around him and a hand plants itself firmly in the middle of Zach's chest, pulling all of him closer to Chris's body under the sheets. "So I have a question," Zach feels Chris say near his ear, the breath sending chills down his spine. "What does Academy Award nominee Zachary Quinto want to do today?"

"If you think I'm not going to hold you to your promise of calling me that every day until we die, you've grossly underestimated my vanity," Zach replies, pushing his neck back against Chris, who gets the message and kisses him along the line of his neck and collarbone.

"You're like, ninety-eight percent vanity -- underestimating your vanity is like -- okay, snappy metaphors later. What do you want to do?"

"Reorganize the closets."

"Veto."

"Reorganize the kitchen."

"Veto."

"Rearrange the living room."

"Veto."

"Build a gazebo in the backyard."

"_Super_ veto."

"Alphabetize your books."

"Veto."

"So call me crazy, but I think you have something in mind before the party tonight," Zach says, impressed that Chris hadn't stopped groping him while crushing all his dreams for the perfect anniversary weekend.

"Hmm, maybe, but first you need to fuck me, and then maybe we'll think about getting out of bed."

Zach laughs and yells, "Veto!" as Chris turns him around and pulls Zach on top of him. Strangely enough, Zach chooses not to pursue his veto.

*

"Zac was so into you," Chris says as they continue along the infinite red carpet.

"Sorry his girlfriend wasn't. Whose fault is it she was born on the wrong side of 1985?" Zach asks. "Anyway, surprise, I don't actually want to sleep with poor Zac. He's a good actor. I totally meant that whole 'let's work together' thing, and he won't even have to sing about inane bullshit if I have my way."

"But then how will people know it's a Zac Efron movie?"

"Shut up."

Shifting to the fringe of the red carpet suddenly put Zach and Chris in the middle of a never ending sea of photographers and interviewers. Flashes go off in front of them and Chris lets out a sigh.

"They say you should be worried when the pictures stop," Zach says as he puts on his Serious Actor face and places a hand on the small of Chris's back.

"_They_ haven't met me," Chris says as his arm wraps around Zach's waist and his hand grips Zach's side firmly. Maybe Chris means to reassure him or something (which doesn't make sense, since Zach doesn't mind this shit), but Chris's hand slowly rubs the area just above Zach's hip, the cameras still flashing. Zach grips Chris's waist a little tighter and they stand there for a few more seconds, arms around each other as the photos are taken.

Zach wonders if Chris is thinking about the summer junkets, and whether Chris's waist has the same muscle memory as Zach's -- he must, because they stay together a little after most of the photos stop and Zach inhales slightly, like he always does, to let Chris hold him closer. Chris's fingers tighten and grip the material of Zach's suit jacket and the flesh underneath, and really, they should move.

"Hey," Zach says, "We're being summoned over there. Shall we?"

"Sure," Chris replies.

"And here we have the stars of J.J. Abrams' _Star Trek_ \-- Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto! What have you been up to since you warped to audiences this summer?"

There's that familiar sensation as Zach talks where he's aware he's being chatty and charming, but it's not registering -- like a large part of him is submerged underwater and he can only faintly hear what anyone is saying through the interference.

Chris always manages to ruin that and bring him back to the surface, gasping for air. This time, it's Chris's raised eyebrow and both his hands shoved into his pockets while Zach's hand has moved from Chris's waist to his shoulder. "Yes?" Zach asks.

"You didn't tell me you were playing _George Gershwin_."

"It was only confirmed a few weeks ago."

"You're _never_ going to get that accent right," Chris laughs.

"Thanks for support," Zach laughs awkwardly, and he's genuinely not sure whether to punch Chris or -- no, he wants to punch Chris, because that wasn't a joke, the fuck. "And when's your train movie come out?"

"My _train movie_ \-- oh, with Denzel," and they've sort of stopped acknowledging the interviewer, not that he had much to contribute except some horrible puns written by a toddler. "November. It comes out in November." The interviewer tries to interrupt, but Chris stops him. "I have _Rhapsody in Blue_ on my iPod -- we should go listen to it before the show."

"Thanks, and begin sarcasm: I've _never_ heard _Rhapsody in Blue_, not since I auditioned for the Gershwin thing and not even once since then." Zach smiles and adds, "End sarcasm."

"It's so good to see that the bromance is alive and well!" the interviewer finally manages to say.

"Yeah, totally," Zach says lightly. "However, I think Chris is hinting we take the bromance to another level."

"What?" Chris chokes and Zach smirks innocently. "No I'm not!"

"I mean in that we should start giving interviews only in Gershwin lyrics," Zach says.

"Oh, fuck you, if I could talk in _Rhapsody in Blue_, I totally would," Chris replies.

"Yeah, I wouldn't -- reminded me too much of _Looney Tunes_ music."

"… you listen to _the_ piece that defined American music pretty much _forever_ and thought of _cartoons_?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure 'Gold Digger' defined American music forever, but good try."

"I give up, now you're just fucking with me."

"And this interview is unusable," the interviewer sighs to his cameraperson. "Well, guys, thanks for stopping by, and good luck tonight!"

"_We're not nominated_," they reply in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

"We're so awesome," Chris says.

"Totally," Zach replies.

*

As Zach lets in the first of the caterers, Chris sneaks up behind him and whispers, "Maybe we should cancel the party."

"I'm not falling for _that_ one again," Zach replies. "And I'm not sitting around with you for the next two weeks eating sushi for 40 people because you humped me into thinking it was a good idea."

"That was your own damn fault -- who serves sushi at a party? You'd be singing a different tune if it was steak."

Zach signs a clipboard that materializes in front of him while Chris wraps his arms around his waist and presses his face into the crook of Zach's neck. Zach smiles sheepishly at the delivery person and then raises an eyebrow Chris can't see.

"You're so _clingy_ on our anniversary, I swear -- maybe next year we should take separate celebratory vacations."

"And then pretend to be strangers meeting at some random bar in Paris or Munich, and then we have dirty, shadowy sex against the wall of said bar with only a streetlight to --"

"I would like to see that tabloid headline, though," Zach muses. "You know, because I was caught being serviced by my husband and not some Swiss twink. Of course," Zach says, "you'd probably punch the photographer before he could get anything."

"Jesus, punch a pap once, you're branded for life," Chris replies for what has to be the 90th time in his life.

Zach brings Chris's hands around to the front of his chest and holds them there firmly -- he hates to admit that after a week of sleeping in the LA house by himself, it's comforting to wake up so that the first thing he sees was Chris's shoulder blade, like he had most mornings of the past twenty years. _And_ he made breakfast. He was becoming a sentimental bastard in his old age.

"Thanks again for breakfast," Chris says suddenly, still pressed against Zach and talking mostly into his shoulder.

"I hope you enjoyed it, because I won't consider doing that again for another twenty years," Zach replies. He leans back against Chris and asks, in a quieter tone, "You okay? Don't you have papers to grade or something? Students to terrify electronically? You've only got a few hours before required mingling and seeing our friends, Dr. Recluse."

"Just one of those days," Chris mumbles.

"Oh God," Zach says. "The last time you had one of those --"

"Yeah, _all this_ happened, I know, it's not like that."

Zach turns around and pulls Chris close. "It's all worked out, hasn't it? So stop being a sulky old man and go grade or learn a new language and let me organize our goddamned anniversary party, okay?"

Chris pulls away a little and raises an eyebrow. "Russian could be --"

"Ugh, what about something Scandinavian? Russian sounds so unpleasant. Are you sure you're out of Romance languages to learn?"

"Finnish does have a lot of the same word-building techniques as classical Greek," Chris considers.

"Brilliant. Beautiful. Fantastic," Zach says as he presses his lips against Chris's to punctuate each word. "So go or I'm putting you in charge of --"

"Going!"

*

"I fucking hate this," Zach sighs. "We're only like. Five awards in."

"And there's still six thousand montages and musical performances," Chris replies, his face buried in his hand. Zach stops scratching his chin for a minute to notice how they've managed to split their shared armrest perfectly for complementary bitching postures. It puts him a little too close to Chris's hair and face and that one hand supporting his head, but. Whatever. The last thing they needed was someone to overhear them and scold them for being spoiled little (unacknowledged, closeted, lonely, typecast, privacy-starved, _bored_) starlets.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Zach asks near Chris's ear, and he's aware of how warm his breath is as it hits Chris and returns to him. "They call our parents and we're not invited back next year? They call J.J.?"

"What if Zoe wins --"

"She's not nominated," Zach says.

"Wait, she's not? Why are we here?"

Chris shoots out of his chair and stands in the aisle, realizing he has no idea where to go. "How… fuck, are we trapped here? Do we have to win something to escape?"

Zach grins and leads him up the aisle to the back of the auditorium and, after several twists and turns and encounters with terrifying security guards, they're back on the red carpet. It's mostly empty of photographers who have migrated to the winners' circle or whatever the fuck it's actually called, though a few girls from the bleachers recognize them and ask for autographs.

"Can I get a picture, too?" a blonde girl with braces asks Chris.

"Anything you want, baby," Chris assures her as he signs a magazine with a whole lot of flourish.

"Can I have you?" she asks.

"Anything but that," he replies. "Come on Zach, get a picture of me and Leslie."

They walk three blocks before they can even think of hailing a cab because of the barriers, and Zach says during the walk, "I've never seen you so happy to sign shit for people. Like, ever. Unless we were being really gay in whatever you were signing. Like, literally homosexual."

"I just feel really optimistic, you know?" Chris says as he waves and a cab rushes past them. "Fuck, do they know they're just rushing past Captain Kirk?"

"They know _and_ they don't care," Zach says as he holds the Vulcan salute out into the street. That, somehow, makes a cab stop. "Vulcans do it with style, motherfucker."

*

"Come on, princess, time to get dressed," Zach says as he walks past Chris's office and to their bedroom.

"Already here!" Chris calls out. Zach raises an eyebrow when he enters because Chris is holding a towel around his waist and examining the clothes he unpacked last night.

"Baby, you're at home," Zach says as he rests against Chris's back and tugs gently at the towel. "Why do you need a --"

"Because you insisted on having fucking hors d'oeurvres in the backyard, which our bedroom happens to face and there are caterers staring at us," Chris replies.

Zach looks up from kissing Chris's neck and notices the caterers, who look away quickly and continue setting up. "The curtains _do close_ all the way, you know," Zach sighs as he stomps over to the French doors and pulls them completely shut. "Now where were we?"

"I was trying to remember what Your Majesty declared the dress code on the invites and whether a blazer is going to --"

"Your suit is in the closet," Zach says as he opens up his half of the closet. "Now what am _I_ going to wear?"

"Don't act like you didn't sketch tonight's outfit in your metaphorical notebook when we first got together. I bet you're even wearing the boxers with the hearts all over them," Chris laughs.

"Valentine's Day only! It's like we're _strangers_," Zach whines. He pauses for a moment and looks at Chris. "Have we always been this… completely flaming, for lack of a better word? Are we becoming those ancient queens we cringed at in our youth?"

"Depends on what school of the Pine-Quinto relationship you belong to: the --"

"GOD, another _twenty years_ of this, can I bear it?" Zach yells into a vest.

*

"We are so fucking far from Silver Lake," Chris laughs.

"Yeah, whatever, remember that part where we have money?"

"Right, right, I forgot that."

"You keep blowing yours on coffee, though, so --"

"And your never ending gross-ass hat collection and your women's shirts --"

"And your white t-shirts --"

"And presents for your twink male model boyfriends --"

"Hair dye for your skanks --"

"Yeah," Chris snorts. "My _army_ of skanks, each breastier and blonder than before, right?"

"And dumber. Don't forget dumber. Baby, you can't help it -- you're just looking for a fellow troglodyte."

"And I found one," Chris laughs. "Come here, let's hug like troglodytes!"

"Did you say troglodykes?"

"Fuck, I wish I _had_."

Chris traps Zach in his arms and rubs his face against Zach's shoulder; all Zach can do is laugh and wonder what the fuck kind of spores have gotten into their brains in the past few hours. "Jesus, could you be just a little more of a homo?"

Chris laughs and lets go of him, and Zach has to take a step away and look at Chris again.

Since leaving the Oscars, they had taken a cab to Chris's house -- as in, his _home_, where he grew up in the Valley. They hadn't gone inside, but Chris had paid for the ride there because the burgers at a no-name family restaurant near his high school were The Best and, he confessed, roughly 70% of the reason why he went home so frequently.

Then Zach had paid for a cab to Santa Monica, which Chris insisted on splitting if they were going to the beach (of course they were).

So they bought bottles of wine at the gas station nearest to the beach, said "fuck it" to the open container laws they hadn't thought about in the decade they had been legally allowed to drink, and strolled along the beach at sunset.

Zach squints a little from the sun and admires Chris's silhouette against the ocean backdrop. Chris's suit jacket hangs over one shoulder and he brings the bottle up to his lips every few steps before glancing out at the ocean. Eventually, he must notice that Zach has been quietly staring too long. Their eyes meet and Chris smirks.

"I came here after both my high school proms," Chris tells him.

"Oh?" Zach asks. "Are we about to stumble on the patch of sand where young Christina gave away her flower?"

"Why are you my friend!"

"If only I knew."

"_No_, I didn't wait until prom to fuck my dates," Chris replies.

"So crude."

"I guess."

"You're _agreeing_ with me?" Zach asks, and he swigs from his bottle of wine as some kind of acknowledgment of this rarity.

"High school was all about getting laid and getting the hell out. I don't think I ever cared about anyone in high school."

"Hmm," Zach considers. "That's one perspective." Zach shrugs and adds, "I liked high school."

"Were you..."

"Was I…"

"You grew up in like, fucking nowhere, Pennsylvaina, didn't you? Like in _Footloose_?"

"You mean _Pittsburgh_, the second biggest city in the fucking _state_?"

"Second biggest city in _Pennsylvania_. They have _Amish_ there. It's really like being --"

"Finish it and I will throw you in the ocean," Zach says. "In fact, I will chug the rest of this bottle, develop super strength, and throw you into the _Atlantic_, you fuck."

"What are those words you say funny when you're angry -- I think one is water, or wood-er --"

"Oh my _God_, that's _Philadelphia_, you bastard!"

*

"It's not a receiving line if there's only two of us," Zach says.

"I mean, it is. We're in a line, the two of us, receiving our guests," Chris replies. "Do we really need to be here? Can't we mingle?"

"You _want_ to mingle?"

"Well, no, not quite, but this is boring -- KARL!"

Zach watches Chris run out the door, down the driveway, and into the street, and for a moment he wonders if Chris had just decided to run out the door _forever_ under the pretense of _Karl_ \-- except then he sees Chris and Karl throw themselves into the manliest hug men have ever participated in (nothing touching below the waist, three pats on the back each, and very little -- if _any_ \-- weeping).

"Well it's only been _forever_," Zach says when they arrive at the door. Zach doesn't even try the pat on the back thing -- he goes for the acceptable-between-close-friends unmoving-hug until Karl lets him go. "Where's your wife? Where are the rest of the Urbans?"

"Ah, my date should be here any minute…"

"Holy shit it's J.J.," Chris blurts out before turning and running back into the house faster than Zach can catch him.

"Yeah, J.J.'s my plus one," Karl says.

"You evil man," Zach laughs.

Zach, who hasn't spoken to J.J. directly in about ten years so it's wonderfully awkward and if Karl wasn't practically family he would be _dead_, embraces J.J., who is still short and now mostly grey but apparently still strikes a helluva lot of fear into Chris's cowardly academic heart.

"Chris is taking care of things in the back, maybe you two can find him?" Zach asks.

"I have an idea for the next movie," J.J. says. "Reboot _Generations_."

Zach laughs and grabs J.J.'s shoulder for a minute, and he wants to say what lawyers said for all three of them twenty years ago: _thanks for getting bored with the franchise just as Chris left and not pursuing a lawsuit that could have irrevocably crippled our lives and careers_. He can't, though; that kind of truth-telling is too polite for a six o'clock party during Oscar weekend in Hollywood.

J.J. seems to get it, though, because maybe Zach's a better actor than anyone has ever given him credit for.

"We'll take care of him," Karl says, and leads J.J. into the house, bellowing "CHRIS!" as he goes. Zach watches them go and laughs to himself, and doesn't turn around until there's a light tap on his shoulder -- when he does, he's looking directly into Jacob's face and has to laugh.

"I saw J.J. as I was coming up -- your old lady hiding?" Jacob asks.

"I thought you'd be able to hear his screams as he ran through the house," Zach laughs. "Go on, everyone's in the back -- but where's Zac?"

"'Mellowing out' before Sunday night," Jacob sighs as he pushes some hair out of his face. "And _he_ has your gift, unless Harry Potter _drinks it_ with him during their 'meditation session'. I swear, _I'm_ the younger one and they're --"

"Heeeeeeeeey, baby," Chris says as he runs in through their front door and clings to Zach. "You owe me ten bucks because I _can_ still climb the back fence."

Zach stares at Chris for a moment and then looks at Jacob.

"He'll be _fifty_ this year," Zach says.

"Hey Chris," Jacob says as he extends one arm to put around Chris in a half-hug. Chris smiles coolly (because fuck, it's only been _twelve years_ since that photoshop thing and Jacob's in his _thirties_ and practically _married_ thanks to _Chris's_ matchmaking) and extends a hand to Jacob, which Jacob shakes firmly. "Been too long."

"Yeah, kid, glad you could make it," Chris says. "Where's Zefron?"

"Waiting for his hetero life partner, the great Harry Potter, to show up with something he absolutely _needs_ for the Oscars. He's got your blood sacrifice in his manpurse, unfortunately."

Zach laughs and shoves Jacob into the party behind them, then turns to Chris and kisses him. "One day, Jacob is going to punch you for being the worst gay husband role model on the planet and I'll --"

"Cry, probably, and you'd let him do God knows what to you, and then I'd --"

"He's just a baby -- you're the fat ass I want."

"Zach!" Chris shrieks. "I told you about the fence! I climbed up that mother and jumped it and then ran _around the block_ back here, like, _sprinting_, and it's an _LA block_ and they're like, eternal."

"Every year, you just have to make a bigger fool out of yourself than the last," Zach sighs.

"Wait until you see what I've got planned for my birthday," Chris beams.

*

"And that's how the ocean stole our wine," Chris tells their next cab driver.

"Ten bucks extra for getting my backseat soaked," the driver informs them, choosing to glare at Zach in the rear view mirror.

"I have my lady's wallet so don't you worry, sir," Zach says.

"Since when am I your lady?" Chris asks.

"You just made my job _so_ much easier," Zach laughs. "Oh, you can stop here."

Zach digs for money from both their wallets and presses it into their cab driver's hand. "Have a good night."

"Live long and prosper, Mr. Spock," the cab driver calls out.

"You too, man," Zach says, and he's shocked at how much he means it.

Inside Zach's house, Chris is shoved into the guest bathroom with a change of clothes. Zach undresses in his bedroom, throws his soaked suit aside, and sits on the edge of his bed, waiting for the sound of Chris's shower to stop.

Zach grins when he remembers how just an hour ago, he had tackled Chris and they fell into the Pacific, and he really did yell things like 'wood-er' as he tried to drown Chris in their $6,000 suits.

"Hey," Chris says quietly. Zach stands up, holds his towel firmly around his waist, and walks into the hallway outside his bedroom. Chris stands outside the guest room in a similar stance, a similar pastel blue towel wrapped around his waist. "Water's yours."

"Thanks," Zach says. As he starts the water, it strikes him how strange his brain finds the idea of Chris sleeping in the guest bedroom. He should come to Zach's king-sized bed and they should watch movies until they fall asleep, or they should talk until one of them nods off and the other falls asleep listening to the rhythmic breathing in the room and the occasional clicking of Zach's pets' claws on the floor.

He tests the water and shakes some of the ocean out of his hair before stepping inside. It's a little cold, but that's probably for the best.

*

A few of Chris's academic friends in town for a conference show up too late to be considered fashionably late and Chris sequesters himself in a corner with them, talking about all the celebrities in the room. Zach knows Chris hates celebrity and doesn't genuinely _get_ the appeal of celebrities to everyone else -- he can understand it academically, but celebrity itself chafes him like nothing else. Anyway, the effort Chris makes to entertain his academic friends is sweet, and Zach grins at him from his corner of the room.

Meanwhile, the party has gone from 'yay Zach and Chris' to 'oh my _God_ who is actually going to win Sunday night?' and Zach isn't sure how much more he can take.

"You're the oldest guy in the category," Kristen tells him, "and _thankfully_ nothing has changed in Hollywood in _a hundred years_, so because you're old and white, you'll probably get it."

"They owe you for _Daylight Savings Time_," Jacob says with a smirk, and Zach gives him a look that says he's seriously considering punching him.

"Not to keep playing up how you might win due to being a special little flower," Zoe says, "but you'd be the first openly gay actor to win."

"Really? The first?" Kristen asks. "That would be huge."

"Someone on the BBC checked and that's not counting men who won and _then_ came out when they had nothing left to lose," Zoe replies.

"I can't believe it's taken this long," Zach sighs into his glass of champagne. "It's literally _been_ a century of this fucking award system and I just -- it's hilarious to think I might not even be the first."

"Fuck, do you remember what a fuss people made when we were both up for awards?" Jacob asks. "And every interview was about me and Zac, or me and you and the 'rumors' about us, never mind the _movie_."

"The things we do for love," Zach replies, and he's not invested in the conversation anymore. "Guys, less about the politics of Oscar voting, more about what crazy shit I should pull if I _do_ win. Chris has already threatened to streak if I lose."

"I don't know, but remember I have my big ole granny purse if you want me to smuggle props in for you," Kristen replies.

"The usual flasks strapped to your thighs should be enough, baby," Zach laughs, and he gasps exaggeratedly and grabs Zoe's arm. "Also, fuck, we haven't even talked about _your_ chances tomorrow! And what are you wearing? Tell me everything."

Zoe begins to describe her dress, but it's one of those days when Zach finds it impossible to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes. It's bad enough that he considers canceling the cleaning crew tomorrow and doing it all himself, except he's going to be getting ready for Sunday and trying not to lose his fucking _mind_, and he and Chris have errands to run and will probably be followed which will put _Chris_ on edge, and --

Zach is brought out of freakout mode by his entire party chanting the word "cake" almost psychotically. Zach finally notices the caterers wheeling in a five foot _monster_ of a (florescent pink and purple) wedding cake that he sure as _hell_ didn't order.

"The fuck!" Zach yells, and there's Chris following the caterers, beaming excitedly with a champagne flute in one hand. "You did this!"

"Your cake was _boring_," Chris calls back. "And this is our guests' gift to us!"

Zach rolls his eyes hard enough to strain something, but he's pushed by their friends towards Chris, manicured nails and rings clanging gently against champagne flutes like at a wedding, and Zach is sure he hears ovaries burst when Chris throws his arms around Zach's neck and kisses him. Zach breaks the kiss and shouts, "Did he put his foot up? Someone tell me!"

"Shut up," Chris laughs and kisses him again.

*

"This shirt's boring," Chris announces when Zach steps out of his bathroom.

"It's a white v-neck -- you know, the kind you're wearing every time I've seen you in the past six months?"

"I want another one," and Chris must be drunk if he's standing shirtless in Zach's closet, a pair of sweatpants hanging off his hips, flicking through Zach's t-shirt hangers. "Ooh, club sandwiches, not seals!"

"No!" Zach says. "I love that shirt and your big stupid arms will just stretch it out."

"Umm, how about…"

"There are lots of plaid ones, lots of big v-neck t-shirts in _lots_ of colors --"

"But I _have_ those at home," Chris whines. "The hilarity of wearing your clothes means wearing _your_ clothes, and it doesn't help that we're practically the same person."

"We are?" Zach asks.

"Fuck it," Chris decides, and grabs a navy v-neck t-shirt.

"Good choice," Zach says. "Can I get dressed now?"

"Fine," Chris sighs loudly, and he wanders off to the kitchen. Zach throws on clothes (he goes for the 'club sandwiches' shirt, just to mock Chris, except it also doesn't fit _his_ stupid newly big arms that weren't there in like, 2006, fuck) and enters the kitchen. As expected, Chris has practically climbed into the fridge and Noah is nudging Chris's knee impatiently. "Zach, do you have anything… okay, I don't actually know what I want."

"We had burgers like, two hours ago," Zach replies.

"Oh, right." Chris closes the fridge and finally notices Noah at his knee. "Hey, boy. How --"

Noah immediately wanders back to his bed and Zach laughs.

"You were wasting too much electricity, keeping the fridge open," Zach says.

"Yeah, yeah. So." Chris runs his fingers through his hair and looks at Zach expectantly. "I'm not tired. Because it's only like, nine o'clock."

"Almost eleven," Zach says. "Let's watch movies."

"No _Star Trek_, I don't care if we're in it," Chris warns, and he walks past Zach to Zach's bedroom, which does have a TV and everything, and Zach doesn't ask questions.

*

The last guests leave at around 3 a.m. and leave Zach and Chris sitting in their backyard on wicker chairs, looking up at the light-polluted sky and kind of enjoying the quiet.

"That was a pretty good party," Chris remarks.

"Yeah. Not too crazy, not too boring, just. Average."

"We're not drunk."

"I'm just, like. Tired."

"Zach, I think we're old."

"Ugh, and people are saying 50 is the new 30 and hey, guys, what if I don't want to be 30 again?"

"30 was a good year," Chris muses. "Difficult, but pretty great."

"For you, but for me it was 2007. Wow. That was… ugh, mostly _Heroes_, gross, when it all started to go bad? Lord, and the writer's strike."

"No, no, 2007 was good! We started filming Trek just as the strike started!" Chris leans over, takes Zach hand and, inexplicably, bites Zach's knuckles. "And I realized my friend Zach was kind of amazing in every possible way and he needed to be in my life all the time."

"Which we didn't follow up on for a while, but that Chris was smart." Zach looks away from Chris for a second and laughs. "Even if that Chris spent most of the year in that wine movie with the really long hair -- just a big, drunk, blond Jesus."

"Ugh, 27, such a bad year. Except for you."

"Come on, Jesus," Zach says as he stands up. "Big day tomorrow: pick up our tuxes, lunch with my brother, and you can't punch any paps."

"Okay, but --"

"No! No punching!"

"_Fine_," Chris sighs dramatically, and they stay outside for a while longer before retreating indoors.

*

Zach wakes up in his bed, on his side, a navy blue shoulder blade in his line of vision. He rubs the corners of his eyes and thinks _oh right Chris CHRIS!_ He calms down when he stops for two seconds and feels the reassuring presence of his shorts. Zach estimates that waking up with one's best friend after watching some movies and traveling across southern California and skipping out on the Oscars is only about 95% gay, and falls asleep again with some relief.

When he opens his eyes again, Chris is awake and staring at him. Zach is startled and Chris does a terrible job of pretending he wasn't watching him sleep.

"Morning," Zach says.

"Morning. That was weird."

"Little bit weird."

"I'm hungry."

"Jesus, do you have a tapeworm or something?"

"What if I do, Zach? And you made fun of it?"

"Shut up." Zach bites his lips and admits, "I'm hungry, too. Let's go find food."

"Photographers," Chris says, and then Zach sees something cross his face, some flick of a switch that relaxes all of Chris's features. "Fuck 'em."

"Whoa. Whoa. This is not the Chris Pine I know. That took _seconds_, not hours of coaxing and pleading and bad disguises."

"Well," and Chris's grin is fucking _dazzling_ like this, with the sun streaming in and playing with his awful brown buzzcut and his eyes looking as blue as they ever will. "It's like this brain-eating psychopath once said --"

"Fuck. You," Zach says. The spell is broken and he gets out of bed and marches into the bathroom. He can still hear Chris laughing and grins at his reflection in the mirror -- happiness for someone else and at his own expense? It's -- it's new, and in tiny doses, it's almost nice.

*

"Hold on, don't -- don't unlock the doors yet!" Zach says to their limo driver over the intercom.

"I'm gonna have to go around and queue up again, Mr. Quinto," he replies.

"That's fine, sorry about the hassle," and he quickly switches it off and bites down on his knuckles and digs his nails into Chris's shoulder. He looks down at Chris, kneeling on the floor of the limo and giving him a wide-eyed innocent look -- innocence which is kind of canceled out by Zach's dick in his mouth. "_You_ are taking too long."

Chris shrugs and digs his fingers into Zach's hips, but doesn't speed up the licking and humming and swirling of his tongue, and Zach can almost recognize what Chris is humming but not quite? Then there's one long, slow lick up the underside and Zach sinks deeper into the seat, his legs splaying open further and giving Chris more room to take Zach deeper in his throat. In another moment, Zach is bucking against Chris, who keeps a hold on him and pushes him down into the seat.

Zach recovers and he looks down to see Chris zipping him up and, with a tiny smile, patting him on the crotch. "All ready."

"What the fuck is wrong with us," Zach laughs. "Get up here." They kiss and wait forever in the queue again, and chew about nineteen pieces of gum and 40 breath mints apiece, but burst out laughing again once they step out on the red carpet and, really, they used to be better at being serious, maybe.

*

They remember it's the day after the Oscars and kind of a celebrity holiday -- the winners will be stalked thoroughly, of course, but _they_ should be left alone, and that's fine, considering they have to leave Zach's house together.

Chris is still relaxed, though, and they have a fun stroll the few blocks to Chris's apartment building, Chris in Zach's sweatpants and Zach a little too giddy about that.

As Chris getting dressed, Zach snoops around his apartment shamelessly. "I didn't think you were this lazy," Zach calls out.

There's a garbled response and Zach rolls his eyes.

"You have like, days and days of mail here -- have you even looked through this shit?"

There's running water, a classy-sounding spit into the sink, and Chris shouting back, "I know it's killing you, so I give you permission, Zachary Quinto, to sort my fucking mail."

Zach debates whether he should shout back 'fuck you' or not, but he's already done that this morning and it would start to lose its meaning. Instead, he hums happily at getting to dig even deeper into the Zach-less part of Chris's life.

When Chris comes out, Zach presents him with his mail separated into piles:

"Catalogs, because now I know you're secretly a home shopping fiend --"

"Yup, that's my big secret. Home shopping."

"And here's postcards from exotic locales -- Karl misses you, of course, and says Toronto is lovely."

"Hi Karl," Chris says, waving to the stack of postcards.

"Bills."

"Exciting!"

"And people who want things from you," Zach finishes.

Chris pokes the pile tentatively, and pulls a large white envelope from somewhere in the middle. "Hm. Berkeley."

"Big envelope."

"They must want a big donation," Chris says. He holds it for another moment and then lets it drop to the table. "Anyway! Food! Let's go!"

*

Jacob finds them on the red carpet and drags them both away from the sidelines full of photographers.

"So I just wanted to let you know," he whispers, "before it gets out, but Zac and I broke up and it looks like he's moving to London to be Harry Potter's kept fucking man, or be each other's men, I actually _don't_ care which of them has the bigger franchise but I think it's the little hairy hobgoblin who, actually? I _never_ liked and…"

Zach pulls him into a fierce hug and gets the shock of his life when he feels a hand, and it has to be Chris, taking one of Jacob's and they're all in some kind of strange clinging state in the middle of everything and, yeah, they're being stared at.

"I just," and Jacob finally stops talking into Zach's lapels and looks at Zach kind of helplessly, "I really wanted him to be my Chris, you know?"

"But Chris treats you like shit," Zach replies, and he knows without looking that Chris has opened his mouth to protest and closed it again. "It's just how he exists. He treats pretty much everyone like that." He may be exaggerating for effect, but whatever. "Don't look for someone who'd be good for me -- I can take the fact that his day job is boring, that he punched a photographer on our first date, threatens to cheat on me with his students hourly, still gets excited over free food at conferences even though we're multimillionaires, and counts blowjobs as currency."

"Finland does, too," Chris chimes in.

"But if you're a delicate little flower who needs someone to be saccharinely sweet to you and spend hours staring into your eyes and shit like that, then find it. We are _not_ the gold standard. We kind of got slammed into each other and we're too far gone to do anything about it at this point."

"You can join our red carpet game, Jacob," Chris says. "Find people younger and uglier than Zach."

"You need good reasons, too; I won't accept idle flattery."

As Jacob discreetly wipes his eyes and scans the crowd for uggos, Zach and Chris fumble for each other's hands and squeeze until they ache, and don't let go until they're inside and forced to clap.

*

They kind of spend all day at _the fucking mall_ because the rest of the world considers it 'Monday' and the only people there are mothers with shrieking kids and the geriatric population out for its daily walk. They make a pact never to tell anyone how long they spent at American Eagle, or how many times they stopped by the gelato place before Zach finally caved and gorged himself on chocolate cappuccino gelato, or -- even more shameful -- about Chris's secret, passionate love for Williams-Sonoma.

"_Really_?" Zach asks as Chris steps inside.

"My parents love it so it's kind of like a Pavlovian thing -- housewares equal instant childhood nostalgia."

"Bull. Shit." Zach presses himself up behind Chris as he's examining the space-themed pancake molds and whispers in his ear, "You love it, you big domestic homo, don't even lie. You want a stainless steel kitchen and a beaming, personal-trainer-on-the-weekends husband at the stove to kiss your cheek when you get home every day --"

"Gentlemen -- are you looking for anything in particular today?"

Zach and Chris look at the salesperson slowly and Zach takes a step off Chris's back. "No," Zach says. "Just browsing."

"Thanks, though," Chris says.

The guy wanders off and Zach and Chris look at each other for a second before they burst into laughter and lean on each other so they don't break anything on the display table.

Later, as Chris is looking at some Panama weave baskets (even Zach isn't that gay on his best days), he looks at Zach casually from the corner of his eye.

"Hmm?" Zach asks, still considering the set of chardonnay wine glasses across the aisle.

"Is that what you want?"

"The glasses? Maybe."

"The thing about a personal trainer hus --"

"God, no," Zach replies. "I mean, it would be nice if he had a career. Great hair is optional."

"That's it? Does he even need to be humanoid? Would you --"

"Shut up," Zach laughs. "Everything else is, you know, standard. Must have sense of humor or I'll die."

"You can't entertain yourself?"

"I need an audience." Zach decides against the glasses and wonders how much time Chris is going to spend touching the fucking baskets.

"Yeah you do," Chris laughs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Zach resists crossing his arms over his chest and looking pouty, but Chris looks kind of alarmed all the same.

"Not in a… bad way? Is there a bad way?"

"Actually," Zach says as if Chris hadn't spoken, "I think _you're_ the needy one here, not me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I act to support myself," Zach replies. "Because it's something I can do to earn money and feed and clothe and house myself. Enjoying it is a fringe benefit. I act because I'm pretty sure I can't do anything else well enough and it so happens I'm pretty good at it, so. Here I am. I act. But why do you act?"

Chris looks at him and Zach is a little crushed at the -- seriously shocking, and he's not sure he's ever seen this on Chris before -- vulnerability on his face.

"I'm good-looking," Chris says. "I'm really good-looking, and people said I was good in the few plays and short films I did in college, so for lack of a better thing to do, I came here to act."

Zach is sure as _fuck_ not going to be the guy who tells Chris fucking Pine to give up a gazitrillion dollar franchise and go find something he actually _wants_ to do for a living, so he puts an arm around Chris's shoulders and holds him for a few seconds. It's enough to drive away the sales associate when he shows up in their aisle again.

*

Chris falls asleep during the ceremony, and billions of people get to see Zach prodding him awake in time to be a lovely, gracious couple intently watching the montage for Zach's nominated movie.

They also get to see Chris kiss Zach on the ear when the montage is over and Zach elbow him in the ribs some more afterwards, laughing the whole time.

Zach puts an arm around the back of Chris's chair and just like that, the awards become TV night at their house and that much more bearable.

*

The rest of the day is spent in a blur of getting back to Zach's place before rush hour traffic traps them on the freeway, walking Noah together because Chris hasn't had a dog since he was 14 and misses them a lot, and collapsing on Zach's couch for a Bogart marathon on Turner Classic Movies.

"I could probably watch _Casablanca_ on loop for the rest of my life," Zach says, even though they're watching _The Caine Mutiny_.

"Right," Chris replies.

"Uh oh," Zach says, "Is Christina getting ready for beddy-byes? Because they're playing _Casablanca_ again after this."

"But we already watched it at 3." Chris groans and stands up from the couch, stretching his arms way over his head and Zach pretends to look at the remote rather than Chris's stupidly perfect stomach. "I think I'm heading home."

"Oh," Zach says, and he's shocked at how shocked he is that Chris is going home -- after all, they had been in each other's pockets for the past 36 hours and had like, five meals together (one of which they cooked _together_ in Zach's fucking _kitchen_) and… Zach suddenly feels as tired as Chris sounds, so he nods in agreement. "Yeah, it's been a long day."

"Yeah," Chris says. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at Zach, who's still sprawled on the couch. "We should do this again soon. I've… we don't hang out enough."

Zach purses his lips and nods, and when he looks at Chris, he knows they're both lying out of their stupid asses. 'Soon' isn't the qualifier either would use, but was either of them going to _say_ something?

Zach stares at Chris, who looks away and nods. "Okay, I'll see you around." It's the kicked puppy demeanor that has Zach get up and walk him to the door, clutch his shoulder in that totally manly way he's seen in movies, and close it right behind Chris.

In his living room, he sees it's 9:53. Definitely time to go to sleep. Definitely not the time to forage for ice cream in the freezer and take it to bed with him and watch _Casablanca_.

… Shower first, then all that.

Minutes or hours after he's toweled off and crawled into bed without bothering to pretend there was a need for shorts, he wakes up to his bedroom door opening and someone flicking the light on.

"The fuck!" Zach shrieks when he sees Chris stand in the doorway for a moment before walking over to the bed and sitting next to Zach, who pulls the covers a little tighter around himself.

"One," Chris says, "I'm quitting the business and going back to school to get a PhD in English literature."

Zach's eyes dart to the nightstand -- of course he left his phone in his pants and his pants in the bathroom, and of _course_ his phone is the only time-keeping device in his bedroom. After a moment, what Chris said sinks in and Zach sputters a little and raises his eyebrows as high as they can go. "Chris, have you been smoking up with Anton again? I think this is the textbook definition of a bad trip."

"And two," Chris continues as though he hadn't been interrupted, leaning over Zach and staring down at his mouth, "I'm going to kiss you."

Chris seems to be waiting for something from Zach, either a 'no please don't do this' or 'yes please do _this_ and do it _hard_ and also never leave me', but Zach can only croak out, "Yeah, okay."

And after their first kiss (pretty fucking intense by Zach's standards) and first fuck (Zach thinks that even if everything crashes and burns tomorrow, no one will _ever_ worship his body like Chris does this first time, tracing every contour, commenting on everything he sees and feels -- oh, and Zach's head is slammed into the headboard and they can't stop laughing), they settle against each other, face to face, and try to have a Real Life Conversation.

"Those sneaky Berkeley shits, not writing 'admissions office' on their fucking envelopes," Zach says as his arm wraps around Chris and a hand settles in his hair.

"I'm deferring for a year," Chris says, "so that gives me 18 months to finish my life here and get the fuck out -- ow, not _you_, leave my hair alone."

"Big loss -- ow! Come on!" Zach presses his forehead against Chris's and asks, "Now where do I fit in?"

"Come with me," he says. "It's crazy, but --"

"I'm there," and Zach wonders whether he really has lost his fucking _mind_.

"Okay," Chris says, and he was _worried_, the little shit, because that's a sigh of relief, and definitely a kiss of total relief, and he kind of melts all over Zach, who holds him even closer and half-realizes that he's going to have to fight _a lot_ for Chris very soon. "Okay, it's going to be awesome."

"And you have a back up career as an actor if you fail," Zach says near his ear, and that gets a set of shockingly well-kept nails raked down his back until Zach laughs and bites Chris's shoulder lightly.

*

He wins.

He wins and he instantly has Kristen's tiny arms around his shoulders, kissing one of his cheeks and shrieking at a hysterical volume and pitch. The clapping is _everywhere_ and he finally looks to his left.

Chris is standing and extending a hand out to him. Zach limply puts his hand in Chris's, which is enough for Chris to pull him out of his chair and envelop Zach in his arms. Chris presses his mouth against Zach's and laughs because Zach's mouth is hanging open slightly from shock.

"Come on, go make a speech so we can get the hell out of here," Chris whispers.

"Uhh," Zach replies simultaneously. "Oh my God."

Chris kisses him again, mumbles something against his mouth that might be 'commando' or 'Fernando' (either way, he's intrigued), and he lets go of Chris to run up on stage.

Once there, Zach can't see the audience anymore and realizes most of his time has been used up just in getting on the fucking stage. And he's sweating, which means _shiny_.

"Right, so, _this_? Is awesome," Zach says and thank fucking everything, there's laughter. "And forget humility, let the Internet explode tomorrow, because I totally deserve this." There's more laughter and one obnoxious coyote laugh that he's sure is Chris's. "So, thanks to the usual suspects: my mom, my brother, friends, mentors, naysayers, good agents, bad agents -- it goes without saying, but you've all made me who I am today, uh, actor-wise and person-wise and you can take as much credit as you want, but the statue itself stays with me, okay?"

More laughter and he adds in a rush, "Also, it needs to be said: _everyone_ involved in this movie, and I mean _everyone_, from my fellow actors and the producers and directors to Margie in make up, given the gargantuan task of keeping my eyebrows in line -- but hold on -- Chris!"

Zach sees on one of the huge screens to the side that a camera has cut to _Kristen_, who looks simultaneously ecstatic and baffled.

"Seriously, are you kidding?" Zach snaps into the microphone. "Cut to her left, cut to my _husband_ \-- Chris!"

And he can't see Chris from the stage, not really -- he thinks he sees someone on the aisle leaning forward, but he glances over at the huge screens to make sure they've got the right person and, yes, there's Chris. There's Chris.

"Okay, so twenty years ago, uh, this past Friday, Chris used his spare key to get into my house in the middle of the night, wake me up, tell me he was leaving acting forever -- to go study _books_ of all things -- and then he kissed me and… he hasn't stopped." Zach laughs and he knows he's talking at a million miles a minute, but the music is starting so he keeps going, "I mean, he hasn't stopped being _insane_ and amazing and _everything_ to me, so Dr. Christopher Pine, here's to another twenty, forty, eighty billion years together, okay? Okay. Great. Thank you."

*

Chris's Berkeley syllabi are unique for the one paragraph they carry just after the book list but right before the mandatory paragraph on plagiarism:

_**Class Discussion and Relevance:** Class discussion is the cornerstone of UC Berkeley's education philosophy, and class participation will count significantly towards your final grade in this class. Please ensure that your comments are succinct and contribute to the topic and materials at hand._

One student every year or so makes the mistake of not seeing past Chris's easy smile as he discusses this part of the syllabus on the first day of class, and sometime in the first two weeks of class will begin a class discussion with a smart ass comment like:

"Is it true you live with _Sylar_ or does he --"

"So did you quit _Star Trek_ for the money or --"

"Is x as cute in real life as they are in --"

The entire class winces and then notices Chris turn frigid and put a hand out to stop the student from talking. Chris then launches into a speech he perfected after three semesters as a TA:

"Okay, seriously? We're all _really_ impressed that you made the connection between your instructor and a guy in a sci-fi movie that's however many years old, so pat yourself on the back for that one. While you're doing that, let _me_ make that funny paragraph about relevance on the syllabus crystal clear to everyone: my personal life should _never_ have a bearing on your understanding of this material. If you think I'm just a stupid actor and you're here to see what the fuss is, then the door is _right there_ and I will be happy to help you transfer into another section of this class with another instructor. If you're here thinking that this class is going to be about something besides literature and its interpretation, then I'm sorry. I can help you get into another section, too.

"And one more thing: if you think I'm just being a hard ass for show and it might _actually_ be cute to bring it up during office hours or in an e-mail -- try me."

Chris always loses a student or two after making that speech, but it needs to be said.

However.

Two days after the Oscars, Chris blows into class and bounces down the steps of the lecture hall, apologizing for being late. He pulls off his messenger bag and tosses it on the desk, sits on the edge of the desk, and looks at the 20-year-olds that fill his 20th Century British Survey class.

It's not that Chris is _always_ that hard ass who makes that awful but necessary speech every once in a while: he jokes and laughs and swears and has a good time with most of his classes. It's just that there's also a very sharp awareness of The Line, and how no one can ever reference any movie he's been in, or any movie Zach has been in, or even _Lindsay Lohan_ if they know what's good for them.

Of course, there have also been pictures and videos of Chris and Zach kissing in the aisle at the ceremony when Zach won plastered _everywhere_ in the 36 hours since Sunday night; and of the moment Chris was pushed onto the platform in the winners' circle and they kissed again and some photographer caught him looking like a huge sappy-eyed _cow_ staring at Zach adoringly as he held up his statuette; and of going out to dinner with Zach and his brother's family the night after, sunglasses on in full force but that beaming smile still on Chris's face.

Chris sighs loudly and kicks his feet against his desk. "_Fine_, guys, we can talk about it."

His students explode into noise and he hears at least 30 'OHMIGODYOUGUYSARESOCUTETOGETHER' and 50 'WILLIEVERFINDALOVELIKETHAT' and the unanimous shrieks of 'AND HIS MOVIE REALLY DESERVED TO WIN' and 'ARE YOU LIKE, SO TOTALLY HAPPY FOR HIM OR WHAT?'

Chris can't stop grinning as his students babble excitedly and even his TAs, usually a silent, stoic row in the back of the room, have moved down a little and contribute occasionally to the conversation.

"Is it true?" Amber King asks. "That story he told? You broke into his house and proposed to him right there?"

"Uh, something like that," Chris laughs. "Marriage still being kind of legally impossible, it was more… hey. Let's. You know. Let's form an alliance. For as long as we both shall live."

"Are you really only fifty?" Randy Cohen asks.

"_Only_ fifty?" Chris asks, kind of offended.

"I mean, you look way younger."

"You mean am I _already_ fifty? I'm not -- I will be this summer. But thanks, Randy. I think."

"Do you wish it was you?" Nina Castillo asks. "You know, that you'd stayed an actor and won an Oscar and all that?"

"Uh, no," Chris laughs. "Never. Ever. Never ever ever."

"But _why_?" Angie Hartley asks (and he's really proud of remembering all their names six weeks into the semester). "I mean, my mom says you were _so_ famous and you still are but without the perks."

"Without the perks?" Chris asks incredulously. "You mean without all the -- look, guys. Tell everyone. Tell everyone who has _ever_ wondered about Dr. Pine and how he could Give It All Up for Academy Award winning actor Zachary Quinto and a red border collie and teaching kids about books." Chris clears his throat and suddenly he's a little chilled because -- has he even told Zach this? Zach has to know. He has to.

"When I was an actor, and famous, what do you think that meant? It meant knowing my lines when I showed up, forgetting them because it took six hours to set up a shot, becoming best friends with a group of people I'd have torn from me as soon as promoting was done, and being paid a _fuckload_ for one job and maybe not working again for a year. It sucked. And ask your parents about the _five years_ I couldn't get a cup of coffee without photographers following me around. It reached the point where the negatives outweighed the positives, so I left."

"And took an actor with you so you could have the best of both worlds," one of his TAs, Noel, jokes.

"Whoa, do I really seem like that much of an asshole?" Chris asks. "I took Zach with me because -- well."

And he shrugs kind of helplessly and beams again, and his entire fucking class 'awww's in a ridiculous way until he shakes his head and grabs his messenger bag behind him. "All right, open up _To the Lighthouse_ \-- time to talk about the 'Time Passes' section and the first person to talk to me about the place of World War I in that passage gets major non-literal points."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly unrelated: if you'd like to read more about the possibilities of Zefron/Dan Radcliffe, check out bogged's NYC verse (http://archiveofourown.org/series/1603).


	4. The Story of Topanga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the cold war between Zach and Topanga began.
> 
> by leupagus

Whenever Zach tells the story of how they got Topanga, he tries to leave out the first three days. Chris, being an asshole, always makes sure to include it.

"...and then," Zach can hear Chris saying to some glazed-looking starlet, sulking into her white wine spritzer and pretty clearly scoping the party for someone more influential than an English professor to flirt with, "Zach didn't even realize she was there until Monday. It was great. He just kept frowning at all the pee stains and asking me if Noah was feeling all right."

"Noah?" Starlet asks, clearly bored but at least she's pasting a half-smile on her face.

"Our other dog," Chris explains, and Zach zooms in to rescue the poor girl because this is a Hollywood party, and people are there to network, not tell stories about dogs.

"Tiffany? I think Hank is looking for you," Zach says, and actually he doesn't know if that's true. As far as he knows, there's no one named Hank even at this party. But the girl smiles gratefully and is gone so fast that there's a little starlet-shaped dust cloud hanging in her wake. Chris blinks.

"So wait, I was telling her a story," he protests vaguely. He sighs and turns to Zach. "Can we go now?"

*

"Do you know if Noah's okay?" Zach asks, plopping down on the couch next to Chris. There's an episode of _This Old House_ on; a lady is getting her kitchen replaced while keeping the old sink, since she just bought it a few months ago. There's a serious dicussion about grout going on between two gruff men with potbellies and beards.

"What do you mean?" Chris asks, not looking away from the TV. Zach's been back home after a week in LA for all of five minutes, but already Chris has been lured by the siren call of home improvement.

"I don't know, I just cleaned up some pee on the bathroom carpet, I don't think he's peed inside for like years."

"Maybe he was so traumatized by you coming home early that he just pissed himself," Chris says. He's not really looking at the TV, actually -- Zach narrows his eyes as he watches Chris peer casually around the room, like he's looking for something and wants to find it before Zach does.

"Did you lose your keys again?" Zach demands.

"What? No. Why?"

"You're acting jumpy. And guilty. Oh my God, are you hiding some bendy grad student under the couch or something?" And it's at least eighty percent a joke, but Zach gets down on all fours and checks just in case.

Chris sighs. "Your phone is ringing," he says instead of denying any of it, and Zach climbs painfully to his feet and answers, and apparently someone at the studio needs him to come over immediately to sign some papers, so he's out the door about ten minutes after he came in, and really, there was no way he could've noticed the wagging tail underneath the armchair.

*

Zach finally finds out about Topanga in the middle of the night three days (or nights) later, after Chris manages to fail at explaining what that high-pitched sound is coming from the guest bedroom. (Zach had only believed it was ghosts the first night, anyway -- he tells himself he'd been suspicious for a while.)

The puppy is about the size and shape of a really hairy football, and when Zach opens the door she kind of rolls away from it, like she'd been scratching at the door (the next morning in the daylight he'll see the scratchmarks and thus will begin the Cold War between Zach and Topanga, with Chris and the furniture as innocent victims in the crossfire). She blinks up at him and starts yapping.

"Uh," Chris says, coming up behind Zach. "So there was this kid with this box of puppies."

"Oh my GOD, Christopher Whitelaw Pine, you are grounded forever."

Chris just rolls his eyes and says, "We're going back to bed, aren't we babe?" and to Zach's complete and utter horror, it looks like Chris was talking to the fucking puppy, because she gallumphs after him like his heels are made out of bacon or something.

"How could you not have told me about this!"

"I kind of assumed you already knew!" Chris shoots back.

"I've been here for a grand total of twenty minutes for the past week, not counting the time I've spent unconcious!" Zach points out, aware that his voice is climbing to kind of unattractive-shrieking levels.

"I told you I put her in the guest room!"

"You told me there were _ghosts_ in the guest room!"

"Yeah, that was a _joke_! As in, we're playing a really funny game of let's-pretend-Chris-didn't-get-a-dog! Or something," Chris adds, as though his ears are just now hearing the retardation that is coming out of his mouth. "Whatever, also we're going to have to have a long conversation about how there's NO SUCH THING AS GHOSTS, Quinto."

"Fuck you, my grandmother has totally made silverware rattle!" Zach shouts back.

Chris pauses. "You're talking about your dead grandmother, right?"

Zach realizes that maybe Chris doesn't hold a monopoly on moronic dialogue. "Look, whatever, we now have two dogs and a cat? And hells to the no, Pine, that thing is not sleeping on our--"

Except the puppy is already fast asleep in a little cotton-ball fluff pile, making kind of adorable whuffling noises. Noah comes ticking into the bedroom, no doubt to tell them to keep it the fuck down, and nudges the puppy with his nose. She yawns in his face and he looks up at Zach with this expression of, "This is what happens when you fuck off for work, asshole, I get a little sister with halitosis."

*

For the next week, Zach sleeps with one eye open and has to distract Chris with frankly kind of a lot of blowjobs every time he hears the puppy whining to be let out of her cruel, horrible prison in the guest room. Chris accuses him of being jealous; Zach replies that he's merely being responsible.

"Spitting instead of swallowing does not count as responsible," Chris counters, drowsy and pliant the way he always is post-orgasm. He drags Zach up the bed and wraps himself around him, hooking one leg over Zach's hips.

"I don't spit," Zach says, offended.

"Then what are you talking about?" Chris asks, already half-asleep and probably a little annoyed that they're still talking. Tough.

"I'm talking about your little fuzzball needing to learn the boundaries of, you know. Whatever."

"You just don't want her on the bed."

"Look," Zach explains, "I trained Noah to not get on the bed, and I think--"

"He gets up on the bed _all the time_," Chris points out.

"What I'm _saying_ is that Fuzzball needs to learn the rules of the household."

"Mmm, not Fuzzball," Chris says, and they might talk a little bit after that, but Zach doesn't remember, because he falls asleep.

Zach doesn't call the puppy Fuzzball because it's some kind of nickname or whatever -- she doesn't _have_ a name, and therefore can't logically have a nickname yet. Chris keeps trying things out. Buttercup, Miss Fluff, Yvette ("Do I even want to know?" "I had this French teacher--" "So, no, I don't want to know, is what you're saying."), Coco, Princess ("That's _your_ name." "No, that's what you call me when you want to be funny." "Princess, I'm always funny."), Molly, and Sadie have all been tried out and summarily discarded. Chris takes to shouting out random names and seeing what the puppy will go for.

"So I think she wants to be called Edwina," Chris says one afternoon when Zach comes home.

Zach feels his eyebrows climb so far up his head they become part of his (not receding yet, which at thirty-five shouldn't be a concern but the men in his family have a tragic affliction called male pattern baldness) hairline. "No."

"I _know_," Chris says, sounding agonized as he -- oh my God, he's _wringing his hands _over this. "But it's the only name so far that she's actually, you know, responded to."

"I don't care, we're not having something called Edwina in the house."

Inspiration strikes, as it sadly so often does, while they're idly flipping through channels a week or so later, propped up against each other, Noah on one side, the puppy on the other, the cat off doing who knows what. Chris has temporarily won custody of the remote (which Zach plans to correct shortly in a bloodless coup) and pauses on ABC Family. Zach doesn't recognize the program -- some kids with really bad hair and a laugh track that puts its production somewhere between the late eighties and the mid-nineties -- and when he cranes his neck around to ask Chris what the fuck they're watching, he sees Chris's face soft with affection and a little bit of--

"Oh, my _God_," Zach says, shoving himself up off Chris's lap. "I know that look! That's your perv look!"

Chris immediately tries to make his face do something different, but he was never _that_ good an actor. "What? No it wasn't!"

"They're like--" Zach looks back at the TV -- "Twelve! And the one with the curly hair is totally fug!"

Chris sighs and shifts around on the couch so he can face Zach in all his crazed glory head-on. "Zach. I've been meaning to tell you this, but when I was a kid--"

Zach preemptively covers his face with his hands. "Oh God," he whimpers.

"--I kind of had a crush on Topanga."

Which is so far outside the realm of making sense that Zach lowers his hands and frowns at Chris. "Like... the canyon? You have a hard-on for geography? Because I already knew about how you like to do it on top of--"

"No, _Topanga_, you moron!" Chris says, pointing at the screen where a busty girl is sassing at some old dude.

And just then, the puppy gets to her feet and barks. It's a pathetic little sneeze, really, but when Chris turns to her she wags her tail and looks generally more animated than she ever does except when she's peeing on Zach's shoes.

"Topanga?" Chris says again, and the puppy kind of bounces on the couch cushions.

Zach rolls his eyes, and they settle, a little warily, against each other again. Zach makes a play for the remote but Chris grabs him by the wrist and kisses his palm instead, and Zach sighs like that isn't cute or whatever. "So," he says. "Topanga."

"Yeah," Chris replies, and if his other hand is occupied in rubbing Topanga's ears, well, Zach's learning to share.


	5. How (Not) to Seduce NBC Nightly News Anchor, Brian Fucking Williams, or, Whiskey Sours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the days before Zach and Chris left for the Trek press tour that would ~change their lives forever~, and set in New York because celebrities there are so much cooler and funnier and dreamier, sigh.
> 
> by leupagus and screamlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screamlet would like you to know that there was an absurd amount of striving for factual accuracy [realism?!], and because that's what this is all about: next chapter will have unicorns (maybe).
> 
> Leupagus would like you to know that she doesn't care about realism and that there'd fucking _better_ be unicorns in the next chapter.

The Berkeley Speaker's Calender lands with a slapping sound on the kitchen table; it's immediately covered up by a catalog for Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware, and the latest issue of _The Week_.   "Hey, hold on," Chris says, sliding the calendar out from under the pile. "There could be something good in there."  

Zach rolls his eyes and continues shuffling through the pile. "Why do we get a catalog for Victoria's Secret?" he asks, sounding more curious than irritated.

"Halloween corsets," Chris replies absently as he reads the calendar. "Hey, do you want to go to any of these lectures? Ooh, there's a talk on San Francisco's urban developent as it relates to 1970s' poetry."

"When is that?" Zach asks as he flips through the Victoria's Secret catalog, probably trying to understand breasts.

"Uh, the fourtee --"

"Oh, sorry, I have an appointment, but maybe we can do dinner?"

Chris sighs heavily, then notices one Special Guest Speaker that Zach definitely, positively, absolutely will be able to see. "So what about the eleventh?" he asks, oh-so-not-at-all-casual-in-any-way-ly.

Zach narrows his eyes. "Why?" he asks, drawing out the word as he sets down the catalog.

"Oh, just, you know. Somebody's coming to speak, you might be interested," Chris says, smug.

Zach tries to look at the calendar over his shoulder, but Chris denies him pretty conclusively. He scowls. "Like I care. Unless it's Brian Fucking Williams, then I'm not--"

Chris is practically bouncing up and down in his seat.

"No fucking _way_."

"Way fucking way!" Chris exclaims, but he instantly calms down and casually adds, "but if you're busy or whatever --"

"Christopher dicklicking Pine, if you do not get me into that auditorium to share the same space as Brian Williams, I will eat your dog."

"So much oral imagery," Chris says in that I'd-like-to-make-this-a-paper way. "Maybe --"

"Chris, I don't think you understand. _I will eat Topanga_," Zach says slowly. "I will tie you to a chair, take your beautiful collie, and roast --"

"RUN, BABY, RUN!" Chris shouts when he hears Topanga coming down the hall. "DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME, I'LL --"

"Brian Williams, Chris," Zach says creepily. "You will take me to Brian Williams."

"You know you're like, way more famous than me and can probably meet him whenever, right?"

"Brian Williams," Zach repeats, and Chris suddenly remembers how Zach opted out of buying a full pack of _logic_ for the house when they moved up to San Francisco. Fuck, man. Brian Williams.

*

He's pretty sure that the first time he realized Zach's pure and true love for Brian Williams was before they'd even gotten together.

Chris had ambled over to Zach's trailer on set to ask about scheduling another kidnapping of some prized Trek memorabilia Karl was dumb enough to keep around, and hesitated opening the door due to some really terrifying non-sexual noises (he hoped) coming from inside. He waited and listened, and then reminded himself that the worst Zach could do was make him feel stupid and be really flexible near him.

Chris had knocked, poked his head in tentatively, and saw that the horrific sound that had kept him from entering was... laughter. Zach's hyena-inspired, disturbing-the-migration-pattern-of-whales, deeper-than-Mozart-but-not-any-better, toothy and weepy laughter.

Chris stepped inside, saw a laptop playing an episode of _The Daily Show_ with Brian Williams and Jon Stewart ribbing each other, and was a little disappointed that _that_ was it.

Zach saw him and shut down his laptop so fast he might've severed a finger. "Uh. Hey," he said

"Are you...?" Chris really didn't know how to end that sentence, so he just waved his hands around a little bit.

"What?" Zach actually tried to pull off the innocent look, which, with those eyebrows, no.

They stared at each other for a few more seconds, eyebrows inching higher and higher, until Chris just sighed and asked, "Look. Tell me. I can -- I think I can handle this." Suddenly it became a game and super easy for Chris to kneel down in front of Zach and take his hand in both of his. "Zach -- does BriWi make you tingly in the pantaloons?"

Zach let out a sigh and touched the spot over his heart with his free hand. "I've always wondered how you do this to women -- Anne Hathaway, LiLo -- and now, now I know how _they_ feel, Chris --"

"Jesus Christ, now I have to take you and get your mouth exorcised," Chris half-snapped, half-laughed. "Seriously though -- Brian Williams? He's your type? Little old for you, isn't he? I mean, I think he's _legally of age to drink_."

"You don't understand him like I do!"

And Zach fled the trailer, letting out fake melodramatic sobs all the way to the captain's chair.

*

Chris kind of forgot about the Brian Williams fetish -- there were other things going on, big movie and having to get his hair fucking _highlighted_ every weekend and Zach trying to imitate Simon's Scottish accent to a really terrible degree -- until right before the movie opened when Zach wrangled him an invitation to the NBC upfronts during their three-day stay in New York.

"_Why_ am I going to this thing again?" he grumbled, pinching the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he rummaged through his hotel closet. He was pretty sure that one of his tuxes was clean. _One of his tuxes_. Fuck, this was his life now. Multiple tuxedoes, living out of suitcases for months at a time, and trying to get out of going to celebrity-packed events. "This is my one night off in the midst of all this fuckery, man, I was hoping to go to a bar and get laid."

He'd actually been planning a wild night of staying in his hotel room and face-planting his bed, but Zach didn't need to know that.

"_Because_ you need to get toughened up more," Zach sighed, the air rasping over the receiver and sounding even louder than it probably was. "I mean, seriously. You almost cried the other day when that pap took a picture of you."

"He took a picture of me and my mom shopping at Gelson's, man, how is that cool?" Chris demanded.

"And we're going to have a long talk about the fact that you grocery shop with your mom _later_. Come to my room, we're leaving in twenty minutes, chop chop," and then Chris was holding a dead phone.

Twenty-one minutes later, Zach climbed into the NBC-provided limo, huffed at Chris in greeting because they were one minute late, and off they went to parade their asses off on some non-Oscar red carpet.

The parading wasn't too awful and Zach's friends on _Heroes_ only played morons and douchebags on TV, so everything was fine until they got inside and Zach froze.

"What's wrong with you?" Chris asked.

"Zach, I think you dislocated my shoulder," Milo moaned.

Then Chris saw all the giant LCD screens announcing NBC's 2009-10 season, a presentation featuring _Brian Williams_ and oh fuck were they ever fucked like a catastrophic fucked thing.

"Chris," Zach whispered urgently. "Chris. Oh my _God_. It's. _Chris_."

*

"So you've got to promise me this isn't going to be like that time at the upfronts," Chris says from the doorway of their bedroom, while Zach is fretting between the closet and the dresser, trying to pick something out for the Berkeley Speaker's Event that's happening in three hours.

"So what, you think I should go with the dark blue cardigan and the skinny jeans or the oxford with a blazer and the really skinny jeans?" Zach replies, frowning at the clothes laid out on the bed. He's got his director's pose on, hips cocked, one hand cupping the opposite elbow, other hand touching his lips thoughtfully. Chris used to mock that pose. Then it started turning him on. Now he usually mocks it while trying to get Zach's pants off.

Except _right_ now, he just sighs and says, "You do realize that you're contemplating the seduction of a dude who's in his sixties--"

"He's fifty-nine, and still very fit!"

"And you're asking your _husband_ what clothes you should wear to said seduction."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Zach protests, reaching over with his absurdly long arms and snagging Chris by the belt loop, tugging him in for a hug and a kiss. "You're the wife. Everybody knows that."

Chris enjoys the moment for what it is and kisses Zach again. "Okay, you can call me whatever you want tonight, just don't -- don't hurt him, all right? I know he's a fierce piece of manmeat and all, but you've got to remember to be gentle when adoring him."

"Would you be our surrogate?" Zach asks dreamily. "You know. If Brian agrees..."

"Mmm, nope, wrong," Chris says as he breaks away and heads to the kitchen. "Also, outfit-wise? Don't wear the one that makes you look fat."

"...which one is that?" Zach's neck snaps to look at the two outfits and he stares at them both for too long before shouting, "Chris, help! My ass needs you!"

*

Because the people who run the upfronts apparently wanted to make Zach's heart explode in his chest, they put _Brian Williams_, anchor extraordinaire, the man of those important hours when shit totally went down, as the main guy to greet all the celebrities entering the theater, as well as the host of the whole damn shindig. Chris supposed times were tight enough to reach even BriWi at that point.

Zach clutched at Chris and stopped the flow of traffic while Brian Williams talked to Hayden and, apparently, commiserated with her over being the youngest and prettiest cast member. "I have that same problem where I work," Chris heard him say.

"Oh my God, he's funny and charming and perfect," Zach squeaks.

"Gotta let go of me," Chris whispered. "Think of something awesome and try not to cream your pants."

"Chris just _listen_ to him," Zach sighed, still ruining Chris's tuxedo with his claws. "His voice is like music."

They inched forward and suddenly, they were there.

"Well hey there," Brian Williams said warmly and yeah, Chris had to admit his voice was kind of like a one-man sunlamp. "It's Zach, isn't it? Can I offer you my brain?"

Chris laughed until Zach replied, "Please let me suck you dry."

"Hmm," said the correspondent who had covered the deaths of Princess Diana, Pope John Paul II, and Ronald Reagan.

"Of your brain," Chris added helpfully.

"I figured," he replied.

"I like music do you like music!" Zach shrieked.

And for 90 magnificent seconds, Zach talked to the lust of his life about music and the new music component that the NBC blog was starting up soon. Then they were ushered to their table and Zach whispered into Chris's ear, "I need more."

*

"... so _then_ apparently they were going to give him some kind of bullshit Lifetime Achievement Award," Zach says, sounding scandalized as he buckles himself into the passenger seat. Chris rolls his eyes and turns on the car. "Which, I mean obviously he deserves one, but he's not even sixty and he's not going to keel over at any second--"

"He might," Chris points out cheerfully, "If you keep talking about him like you're a member of the Brian Williams Fan Club."

"I'll have you know, the hats for that club are adorable," Zach dismisses. "Turn left here, it'll get us to the University faster."

"Says the man who needs GPS to get to the corner store to the _other_ man who drives to the University _every day_."

"Chris! You missed the turn! If we're late--"

"The thing starts at seven. It is, right at this moment, five-forty. Even if you get out here and _walk_ \-- which is an increasingly likely possibility! -- you'll still be embarrassingly early."

"You're such a hater," Zach says mournfully, and fusses with his sleeves. "You've got the tickets, right? For the afterparty?"

"It's not an afterparty," Chris sighs, because one of the few things about Zach that sort of annoys him is how Zach thinks of academia as some kind of really low-rent version of Hollywood, only with ugly people and no lunch meetings. "And no, I don't, because this isn't the kind of thing with tickets, this is the kind of thing where Ashley Tilden from my Graphic Novels and Socialism 201 class is sitting in the hallway taking down the names of people who come in, we give her our names, and then? We go in."

"I'm just making sure we don't have any problems," Zach says defensively.

"Besides," Chris says, turning right, "I'm not a hundred percent sure they're going to let you in. Doesn't BriWi have a restraining order against you?"

"That's just -- _no_ he does _not_, and jokes about stalkers aren't funny, we all learned a valuable lesson from that guy with the thing," Zach snaps. Chris nods solemnly, although to him personally, stalker jokes are still pretty hilarious. Besides, he's not entirely kidding; Zach really should stay five hundred feet away from Brian Williams at all times.

At least.

*

"Are you gonna eat that?" Chris asked Zach after he polished off his own fruit tart.

"What care I for colds when there is such a man?" Zach asked, sprawled in his fucking chair so his body looked about sixty feet long, his hand supporting his head on the back of the chair, his legs crossed languorously, his other arm thrown across his stomach and clawing nervously at his shirt buttons.

"Did you just quote something _old_? Like a _novel_?"

"God, no. Kate Winslet."

Chris stared for a moment, then shrugged it off and switched his empty plate for Zach's full one. "And stop unbuttoning your shirt, for fuck's sake. You look _deranged_."

"Shhhhhh," Zach hissed. "He speaks."

BriWi went on and on about NBC shit and what the new lineup did on some kind of metaphysical and spiritual level, and Chris watched Zach from the corner of his eye for the rest of the presentation. He was still completely deranged, of course, fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt and staring intently at Brian Williams; he hadn't launched himself at the stage, though, so Chris counted that as a victory.

"And now we come to the prime time lineup," His Gloriousness announced. "NBC kicks off prime time with the 39th season of the _Nightly News_ \-- hosted by yours truly --"

"Yeah!" Zach cheered suddenly. "You host that shit!"

"Mom, was that you?" BriWi asked from the stage, and elicited a polite chuckle from the audience.

"See Chris," Zach crooned excitedly, "we're like _family_ already."

"Wow, you took something awesome and made it terrible. Way to go, champ," Chris replied.

"Brian would like it."

"Brian wants you to _shut up_, and so do I."

Zach huffed a little and turned his body towards the stage a bit more, apparently returning his attention to his shirt buttons and willing Brian Williams to undo them with his mind.

*

When they get to the auditorium, Zach makes a beeline for the front row, which is empty. The whole room is, in fact, empty. Because it's six-oh-five and most people are not this profoundly pathetic.

"Zach." Chris tries to channel the voice he uses with Noah (Topanga never needs the voice, she's an angel) and arrange his features into their most imposing I Mean Business Mister configuration. "We are _not_ sitting in the front row."

"But what if your stupid brain dead co-eds are talking or something and I can't hear?" Zach says, wriggling around in the seat. "Ooh, foldy-desk thing!" he exclaims, and pulls out the collapsible A4 writing tablet affixed to his chair arm. He frowns. "It's on the right side," he grumbles, and gets up.

Chris rubs his face with his hands and addresses Zach's ass, since Zach is now going methodically down the line to find a left-handed tablet. "Zach," he says with infinite patience. Or maybe finite. Who knows. "Zach, you're not writing anything down, why do you--"

"Ohhhh, ho ho," Zach counters, flourishing his manpurse and pulling out, Chris wishes he were kidding but he really isn't, a steno pad. "Au contraire, mon frere."

"'On the contrary, my brother'?" Chris translates.

Zach ignores him. "I couldn't find our recorder. Or the flipcam, where the hell did that thing go?"

"I think it's still in Zoe's attic from that one time," Chris replies, and sits down where Zach has finally found an appropriately-handed desk for himself, and is settling in, pulling out two water bottles and handing one to Chris.

"I brought pretzels," Zach offers, and Chris has to laugh, has to sling his arm over Zach's shoulders and give him an embarrassing, old-folksy peck on the cheek, because what the hell. Zach's never complained about his thing for Penelope Cruz, he should just suck it up and deal.

*

And somehow, _somehow_, the inappropriate sexual-harassment-themed heckling from Zach just wasn't enough to round out the night -- no, there had to be an afterparty that Brian Williams was attending, and Zach had to drag Chris into it for no reason except, apparently, to make him wildly uncomfortable by spending the night hitting on Brian Williams.

Having justified it all didn't make Chris feel any better about downing whiskey and watching Zach corner Brian Williams in front of nearly goddamn _everyone_. Zach being about a half-inch from the news anchor's anchor also didn't help the evening pass any easier.

(Chris had to wait about three years for academia to sink into his brain and realize that Brian Williams Night had been the night when he finally began _to view Zach as a sexual being_, in the words of the half-dozen theorists he read on the subject and his own mother, the psychotherapist. It was on Brian Williams Night, while Chris sipped whiskey shot after whiskey shot, that he stared at Zach's body with a surprising amount of anger which he thought, at the time, was just the anger of a friend being abandoned at a party full of strangers.

Sure, it was that, but there was also the added heat he couldn't explain as he watched Zach's hand against the wall next to Brian's head, Zach's head leaning in a little too close for Brian's comfort, and Chris could just imagine what filthy things Zach was letting flow from his fucking mouth. Once or twice, he swore he saw Brian look a little too intrigued by the prospect of _Zach_ and Chris had to stop himself from just stomping over, dragging Zach back to the hotel, and yelling at him for being a moron. Let Zach fuck shit up, Chris would think to himself, and the feeling would come back when Zach laughed at something _Brian_ said and gently touched his arm in that lingering please-fuck-me way.)

"So the _Heroes_ kids tell me you're that guy's keeper for tonight?"

Chris looked around and finally had to lower his eyes a little to see who had spoken. Once he saw, he choked out a whiskey-scented cough and jumped back a little. "Shit, uh, wait," Chris asked Jon Stewart, "is this even your network?"

"If I told you Katie Couric texted me and told me Brian's virtue was about to be violated, would you believe me?" he asked.

"Is she even here?" Chris asked as he looked around.

"I think you're missing the point," Jon replied. "We're going to swoop in, make some cute chit chat, I'll drag Brian back to an undisclosed location, and you and Spock can resume your three-month press tour, okay? And we'll forget about this."

"Jesus Christ, you really are from Jersey," Chris laughed.

"Yeah, sometimes it helps. Now, break on three. Ready?"

*

Chris manages to hold onto his sense of peace and zen and inner calm shit all the way through the lecture, even when Zach clutches at his hand during one part of BriWi's talk that mentions his advocating for animal welfare. "It's like he's gotten _even dreamier_," Zach whispers.

"It's too bad he's _totally not sleeping with you ever,_" Chris whispers back. Zach just sighs deeply and resumes mooning.

But then there's the afterparty -- fuck, goddamn Zach -- the _post-lecture gathering_, and everyone's crowded around BriWi but when Chris and Zach come in, he actually _looks happy to see them_ and _gestures for them to come over_. Chris obeys, deeply suspicious.

"Hey guys," Brian says, standing up from where he was leaning oh-so-casual against a barstool. The sycophants buzz off and it's just the three of them, talking a little too loudly over the sound of bad elevator music.

"Hi," Zach says, a big dorky grin on his face. Chris wants to step on his foot and remind him that Madonna has him on speed dial, for fuck's sake, he needs to pull it together.

"So, I've been looking forward to talking to you," Brian says, and Chris looks around, because he's going to need a drink (maybe a whiskey sour, just for old time's sake) and it's not like there are waiters cruising around with drinks on a tray. Then it occurs to him that Zach's not responding, and when he looks back at them, both of them are staring at him. Brian looks friendly. Zach, less so.

"Me?" he guesses.

"They're offering me a post as guest lecturer next semester," Brian says, then frowns. "You okay?" he asks Zach.

"I'm fine! Good. Fine. And good. So you'd be living in Berkeley for a few months?" Zach asks, sounding waaaaay too casual. He always sounds casual when he's plotting something, Chris remembers, and sighs.

"I'm thinking about it. My wife Jane loves it here, something about New York City being a pit of despair and terrible weather or something?" He grins. "But I wanted to get your take on it -- you've been here for, what, five years now?"

"Ten," Chris corrects.

"Right. And you don't have any -- you know. Problems?"

"He loves it here," Zach blurts. "We both do. It's great. You should totally do it. I mean, the semester here. Totally."

"Well... thanks for the endorsement. We'll think about it."

"You should, we love it, right? Don't we love it?" Zach turns expectantly to Chris.

"Oh we sure do," Chris says dutifully. "More and more every day."

"So what class will you be teaching?" Zach asks, producing a glass of wine from -- holy shit, there _were_ waiters with drinks on trays! What the fuck, Terry Eagleton didn't get this kind of treatment at his post-lecture gathering last month.

Life is shit, Chris decides, and flags down a waiter.

"Whiskey sour, please? And keep 'em coming."

*

Chris and Jon shitting Stewart finished their drinks, left them on some very capable trays, and walked over to Brian and Zach. Chris put out his hand to grab Zach's shoulder gently and begin the process of prying him off Brian.

"Chris, what --"

"Hey, Jon," Brian said in that cool, even tone Chris was beginning to think he had about everything. "Who the hell let you in?"

"Uh, how do I put this delicately -- _your mother_," Jon replied.

"Good old Katie," Brian sighed. "Hey, is it too late for the train?"

Jon laughed and said, "Are you kidding? You have to be up in like, three hours again, right? Say bye to the kiddies and come to our place."

Chris tightened his grip on Zach's shoulder during the exchange because he could practically _hear_ some crazy insanity building up in Zach that might end in a whole lot of murder very soon.

"Zach, it was a pleasure," Brian said, and held out his hand for Zach to shake (he did). "And Chris, was it? I keep thinking of you as Captain Kirk."

"Ha, thanks," Chris laughed as he tugged on Zach's arm to end his overlong handshake.

"Good luck on your press tour -- the movie looks _great_," Jon said.

"Thanks, and have a good night!" Chris called after them as they strode away quickly. "And we go this way."

"I... am never going to forgive you," Zach said calmly as they walked out of the hotel.

"Yeah you will," Chris replied. "He was too old, and too straight, and too _married_, Zach -- it was never going to happen. Also, you forgot the part where he has a heterolifemate already?"

"He's only 18 years older than me and I was totally going to get an I'm-on-a-press-tour handjob before _you_ interrupted."

"Yeah," Chris laughed. "That was _so_ going to happen."

"It _could have_."

"Mmhmm. Look, maybe in an alternate reality, Alternate Brian Williams and Alternate Zach Quinto are making sweet, meaningful love right now, both of you weeping tenderly and holding each other a lot, but if you do that in _this_ reality? Jon Stewart will make your next fedora out of your scrotum."

And crazy Zach, who was still a guy after all, suddenly disappeared and normal Zach came back.

"He is a little terrifying, isn't he? And he's only like, five-five," Zach laughed. "I never knew he was _that_ short."

"I know, right! That is some crazy shit right there."

*

What with one thing and another, Zach drives them home.

"I can't believe you got _drunk_, you _complete moron,_" Zach hisses, bundling him into the passenger seat and reaching over to put on his seatbelt for him. Chris lets him do it, mostly because he can't remember what his fingers are supposed to do.

"I'm not drunk," he says after remembering that Zach just said something. "I'm, you know. Tipsy."

"Tipsy _drunk_," Zach says. "Okay, keep your hands and feet in, I'm closing the door -- Chris -- stoppit!"

Chris keeps tight hold of Zach's blazer -- which did make him look fat, sort of, but what, he was supposed to be _supportive_ of Zach trying to mack with BriWi? Hell no -- and tries to put his feelings into words. "I like your face," he tries.

Zach rolls his eyes. "God, no more whiskey sours for you _ever_," he says and wrestles himself free, shutting the door. Chris leans against it; the cool window feels nice against his forehead.

"So," Zach says, climbing into the driver's side and startling Chris, who'd been about to doze off, "Do we need to talk about your little drunkscursion there, or what?"

"You know there's a difference between using long words and just making up your own, right?"

"Chris, let me be here for you in your hour of need. Or... whatever this is. Why were you trying to drink your pain?"

"I don't have pain," Chris protests.

Zach looks over at him. "You have pain, princess. I'm not sure where it originates, maybe in your _liver_\--"

"It's just--" Chris is, oddly, too sober for this conversation. The last time they'd even brought it up, they'd both been comprehensively shitfaced and had been able to plausibly claim that they couldn't remember even having the conversation. "Do we need to talk about the, whatever, open marriage thing again?"

Zach almost drives off the road. "Oh, my God, what?"

"I'm just asking," Chris says.

"We never talked about it in the first place!"

Chris glares at him. "I know we were both pretending that we blacked out that night, Zach, but come on."

Zach deflates. "Okay, yes, fine, we _talked_ about it, and then I got kind of embarrassing and I thought the blackout story really worked well for us."

"You weren't embarrassing," Chris argues, then thinks about it. "Okay, maybe that thing about disembowling anyone who touched me in the bad place was a little embarrassing."

"Look," Zach says hurriedly, probably because he doesn't want Chris dwelling too much on it, "What I'm saying is that yeah, we talked about it, we decided that boring monogamy was the shit, end of story. Right?"

"Right," Chris sighs. "I mean, and I still feel like that. But you know."

"No, princess, I _don't_ know."

"Well, you know. Brian Williams. And Jacob. And, I mean, if you really wanted to, I'd be--"

"Oh my God don't finish that sentence!" Zach yelps, and pulls over on some random street, yanking on the parking brake before he turns to Chris, intense.

"You should probably put on your flashers," Chris advises.

"Christopher Whitelaw Pine," Zach says, "You are the only man I ever want touching me in the bad place. I am the only man I ever want touching you in the bad place. Nobody else makes crepes for me on Saturday mornings or reads the entire Sunday Times out loud to me like I'm illiterate and sends me seventeen retarded text messages a day and--"

"God, you're making me sound like a lesbian--"

"And I didn't want to say this, because you'd better not get anyone else's second opinion on it ever, but you've got pretty amazing technique when it comes to cocksucking and the odds that I could ever do better than this, than you, are so infinitesimally small that it's really not worth the hassle of trying to pick up the nearest twink or, you know, propositioning Brian Williams."

"But you _did_ proposition Brian Williams," Chris points out, because focusing on that part is easier than focusing on the fact that his brain is going "EEEEEEE HE LIKES ME." After eleven years with someone, that reaction is just fucking ridiculous.

"No, I said that Bistro Liason was the best place in town, and he made a bad pun about liasons, and I laughed because that's what you do when someone makes a bad pun."

"You never laugh at _my_ puns," Chris says, aware that he's grinning like a moron and unable to give a shit. "So you didn't proposition BriWi?"

"No," Zach confirms. "You're the alcoholic for me, baby."

"Awesome."

"So I can take us home now?" Zach asks.

"In a minute," Chris says. "Right now I want to show you some of my pretty amazing technique."


	6. TWAIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Mark Twain saved Zach and Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated, as always, to the marvelous leupagus, whose constant abuse and shaming makes this possible.
> 
> And a billion thanks to that same leupagus and waldorph for looking this over a few thousand times and telling me how to make it suck less.
> 
> Inspired by [this story](http://news.discovery.com/history/mark-twain-memoirs-unsealed-after-100-years.html) from around May or so. Yeah. It's been in the works that long. Sigh.

Graduate programs in the humanities aren't in the habit of courting potential students, but Berkeley pulled some real cloak-and-dagger Indiana Jones shit to get Chris.

At least, Indiana Jones is all he can think of when his former adviser and a few other administrative hotshots from the CLS (College of Letters and Science -- because while College of Liberal Arts is good enough for every other school in the country, it's not good enough for Berkeley) take him deep into the bowels of the library. Oh, and the _chancellor_ of the university comes, too, because why not.

It's dark, dank, moldly, musty, and all those other great synonyms for _gross_ as they wind their way through passages, each one making Chris more and more concerned that he's going to be forced to drink human blood at the end.

And then they reach the end, where a huge steel door opens into some kind of _Batman Begins_ kind of shit: a huge, blindingly bright, sterile lab, and Chris wonders how many goddamn franchises he'll _see_ on this fucking tour.

"Just a little further, Chris," Dr. Lee, his adviser, says, and the other hotshots murmur in agreement.

Chris lingers as they walk because this is apparently _The_ Rare Book Room. Not the rare book room with some rare first editions on display for careful perusal, Chris realizes as he glances at the cases: these are handwritten manuscripts, too cramped and yellowed for an untrained eye to discern easily, and too precious for even the careful handling of the main rare book room.

Dr. Lee stops in front of a case and urges Chris to come forward and look.

"We've been in possession of this manuscript for about twenty years," she says as Chris leans in to inspect the papers in the case. "The previous caretakers simply didn't have the resources to do the materials justice and, considering the time-sensitive nature of the materials, it was unreasonable of them to have held on for as long as they did."

Chris squints a little, the typewritten title page of the manuscript too often manhandled and smudged, and then steps back to stare at Dr. Lee when he reads it.

"This is -- it's _all_ of the Twain autobiography?" Chris asks. He clears his throat so as to avoid squeaking like a girl. "This --"

"Chris, this has the Mark Twain that America _needs_ to meet," Dr. Lee says seriously. Chris steps back from the case and notices the hotshots have gathered behind her, all of them staring at him more intently than he's ever been stared at in person. It's disarming enough to disarm _him_, who has some experience with being visually probed and assessed.

"We've worked out a timetable that would enable you, upon completing your dissertation, to become one of the project managers of the third volume: the volume that will change everything we know about these formative years of modern American culture."

"What," Chris laughs. "I'm not --"

"At the moment, you're not qualified," the chancellor of the CLS informs him. "However, you wouldn't be here if Dr. Lee hadn't vouched for your exceptional work as a student, your potential with further instruction, and your passion for this subject."

He's fucking dumbstruck, but manages to keep his mouth shut. Okay, he licks his lips once, but that's just because the humidity controls in the lab are ridiculous and it's not a nervous tic or anything.

"Mr. Pine," the chancellor of the university begins, "Berkeley is the best educational institution in the world. This is how we remain the best: daily, our scholars push themselves further than they believe themselves possible and, in every discipline, we achieve the extraordinary. We've given the world Google, Apple, Intel, presidents and prime ministers, Nobel Laureates in droves -- Chris, we have a synthetic element on the periodic table." He steps forward and looks right into Chris's _soul_. "Destiny doesn't exist in this day and age, but your timing: why else would you come to us on the eve of literary history if not to have a part in it?"

Chris swallows and nods. "Let's talk."

*

"_Lord of the Rings_?" Zach asks when he hears the story.

"_Star Wars_, dude," Chris says sharply. "Those droids just _happen_ to --"

"Whatever, nerd," Zach replies.

"Oh," Chris says. "_Oh._ You --"

They're lying in bed, facing each other, and Chris leans in to kiss Zach, but changes his mind and smothers him with a pillow instead.

"Basically what you're telling me is that you're pretty hot shit," Zach asks when he fights his way to oxygen again.

"Yeah."

"In the English department at Berkeley."

"It's funny that I can hear how that means _nothing_ to you, while all I hear is like -- it's all in bold and italics, basically, with how important that is."

"Mmmhmm," Zach replies. "And it doesn't mean _nothing_ to me -- it's important because you're there!"

"That's sweet," Chris says, and he kisses Zach for real. "But it's actually important. Like. Objectively important. In the world. To people."

"Of course it is, princess," Zach says in that way where a tree stump wouldn't believe him, and would then beat him into a smoothie for being so condescending.

*

For all that Mark Twain might have shaped Chris's life and post-acting career, Zach finds that Chris doesn't bring it up as often as Zach thought he would.

"That's because it's eating the rest of my life," Chris says, his eyes fixed on his netbook screen.

He's just reading in bed, so Zach rests his head on Chris's lap and doesn't compete with the computer. He had a horrible flight from New York with _two_ fucking emergency landings (one in _Wyoming_, which had achieved flight capability without informing Zach) and just wants to lie here quietly with his fucking husband and stop his shoulders from screaming in pain.

"I come home, you're here, and you're not going to ask me how my sketch of Twain as a central figure in the global 19th century is going," Chris adds. He types a note over Zach's hair and pushes his glasses further up his nose.

"How --"

"Badly," Chris says.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, it sucks." Chris closes the netbook, puts it on his bedside table, and looks down at Zach. Zach looks up and gives him the best tired puppy eyes he can manage.

"Wanna fuck?" Chris asks.

"I might fall asleep," Zach sighs.

"Me too," he admits.

"Is Mark Twain our baby? You know, sucking our youth and beauty and life force out of us?"

"God, I hope not. You know, considering the university eventually wants to sell the shit out of our baby."

"I think we've been celebrities too long," Zach says. "That sounds pretty normal."

Chris murmurs in agreement and strokes Zach's hair for a while. They fall asleep like that and Zach is the one to wake up later, pull the glasses off Chris's face, turn off the light, and urge his zombie into something resembling a sleeping position.

*

It's time for Chris to defend his dissertation and he's a raw fucking nerve for the two weeks leading up to the event. It makes no sense, as he submitted his fucking _extensive_ work on the Twain project as his dissertation so he didn't have to write a traditional, soul-sucking one; he just had to have the past six years of his life devoured by the pursuit of becoming the new definitive Voice of Mark Twain or _what the fuck ever_.

It's really the department's announcement e-mail that pisses him off the most:

_Christopher Pine, Ph.D candidate at the College of Letters and Science in the subject of English, will defend his dissertation on Thursday at 11 AM. This event is open to the public._

Please arrive early as seating is limited.

Those dissertation defense e-mails are sent out every goddamn week and they _never_ have that last line attached, but Chris needs it because he's a special flower and maybe fifty people (versus the usual 10) will be there to watch him embarrass himself and attempt to justify the last six years of his life.

He waits outside the hall, and then they _summon_ him in -- Berkeley brings a weird kind of medievalism and ceremony to just about everything, even today when he gets to sit at a table in front of his three advisers and listen to them poke holes in every argument he's ever made.

For _hours_.

He's been to these before, friends of his mostly, and knows he should walk in, take a seat, and try not to sob.

So he walks in through the double doors and the room fucking _bursts_ into applause. (At least two hundred of pairs of hands attached to bodies in seats, not _fifty_.)

No one else gets that.

Ever.

What the fuck.

Since they expected a huge crowd, the university set up his defense in one of the law school's courtrooms and just as Chris is about to push the little half door to get to his table, he sees the front row.

Zach is sitting there ("early shoot in Sacramento", the liar) with Chris's friends and TAs, all of them sipping from little plastic supermarket champagne glasses. Chris didn't see any familiar faces as he walked in because his students are all in the rows behind Zach, most of them drinking and eating --

Yeah, eating finger foods at his fucking dissertation defense out of _their picnic basket_ \-- the Picnic Basket of Destiny, as Zach calls it, because Chris bought it during their first trip to Williams-Sonoma the day after the Oscars. Chris can't quite believe any of this is real.

"I saved a cup for you," Zach says, holding a plastic champagne glass up. "And I have another bottle for when you kick this dissertation's ass, Mr. Pine."

"Zach," is the sound the whole scene, the whole room full of people supporting him and being hugely inappropriate for him, drags out of his throat. "Remember how I -- I don't mix professional and private," Chris says weakly, shooting warning glances at his friends, TAs, and undergrads.

"I know that, _and_ they told me," Zach replies, "But just for today, could we say 'fuck that'?"

"Yeah, fine," Chris laughs, and he grabs at Zach's shoulder briefly, and his fingers touch the back of Zach's neck and feel the soft hair there before he heads over to his table and sits down.

*

Hours later, after the crowd has dispersed, Zach wraps his arms around Chris's waist and just holds him outside on the lawn.

"Dr. Christopher W. Pine," Zach muses as he stands with Chris. "Can I get you business cards now?"

"Wait two years," Chris replies. "If Berkeley hires me as a professor, I get my own letterhead, too."

"But _my_ cards will say 'fuckmuffin' underneath your name," Zach grins. "Oh! Of course. I could just have them say 'Dr. Princess Whitelaw'."

"Why do you hate me and want me to be sad?"

"Never, princess, never," Zach murmurs, pressing himself against Chris and holding him tighter.

*

Chris becomes a postdoc (more money, same workload, new title), and gets all sorts of access to parts of the Twain memoirs he wasn't allowed to handle before.

"Which is stupid, I mean, hello, public domain," Chris says. "I don't think we're legally allowed to --"

"But why are you talking to me about work?" Zach interrupts because Chris doesn't, as his own a rule, bring shop talk home.

"Because work just got awesome -- come read this!"

So they sit on the recliner (Chris in the chair itself and Zach on the arm, both of them hoping neither the cat nor one of the dogs tries to join because then it will definitely collapse under all of them) and Zach tries to plow through the goddamn 19th century bullshit ("turn of the 20th, you cretin") on Chris's netbook screen.

"Wait," Zach says. "Is -- wait. Wait." He pulls the netbook into his lap, then higher so it's in front of his face, then takes Chris's glasses that fuck with the contacts he has in anyway, and then just stares at Chris.

"Doctor, explain," Zach says, because it's still not old, the 'Dr. Pine' thing.

Chris grins like a kid who just got a deadly weapon _and_ a puppy for Christmas, and rests his hand high on Zach's thigh.

"Mark Twain and his sexy young secretary really, really liked electric toys," Chris says seriously. "And this is in the first twenty pages. I get to devote the next however many years covering the filthy amazing Twain years."

"Do you want to be Mr. Twain and I can be," Zach looks back at the screen and reads, "'that bawdy and licentious slut' --"

"Isabel," Chris finishes. "I can't go a page further until we've done that, Zach."

Zach laughs as he says, "You get more amazing every minute of every day. Now take your pants off."

"I don't think that's what Isabel --"

"_I'm_ saying take your damn pants off."

Chris doesn't fight it.

*

Margot the Paramount agent, who will try for the rest of her unnatural life to get Chris on board for _Star Trek XII: Fuck You, Chris Pine, This is Going to Fucking Happen_, summons Zach for one of their lunch dates filled with half-drunk banter, expensive fucking food, and Zach looking up _how to kill a succubus_ on his phone.

"Zach," Margot announces when their appetizers arrive, "You'll be so happy to hear this."

"Chris has me reading the _Harry Potter_ books and I'm pretty sure the --" Zach stops himself because if he really does make the Harry Potter joke he's about to make, Margot will twist it into a story for the tabloids about how he and Chris are running a children's book themed sex dungeon.

(They aren't.)

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure people can't feel happiness around you, Margot," Zach sighs.

"How _cute_ are you," she coos as she leans over the table and strokes his cheek with her fake nails that could, actually, claw one of his eyes out. She sits back and clears her throat. "I'm not here to talk about _Star Trek_, Zach," she says.

"I'm still not paying for this," Zach says as he's about to shove a forkful of salmon tartare into his mouth.

"Still Paramount's pocket, hon. You _enjoy_ those calories, okay?"

He glares at her and eats it anyway.

"Paramount knows what Chris is doing," she says finally.

"What is Chris doing?" he asks.

"That whole Mark Wahlberg project for Berkeley."

"Mark Twain."

"Mark who gives a shit -- but Paramount thinks people will give fifteen dollars worth of shits if he agrees to consult on the Mark Twain biopic they want to produce."

Maybe Margot has pulled Zach into some kind of wormhole, but that... doesn't sound like an idea he should reject immediately. He realizes he might be emoting his genuine intrigue when Margot smirks at him over her martini.

"Five," she adds, the glint in her eye indicating _million_. "I don't have to tell you that Chris would become the wealthiest academic on the fucking planet if he took this _one job_."

"I'm not sure what part of 'my husband left a trillion-dollar franchise for his love of books' hasn't sunk in yet, but: it's not --"

"This is a timed offer, Zach, and I haven't mentioned the fun part yet." The idea of Margot excited about something terrifies Zach, so he takes an edifying sip of his drink.

"Berkeley approves."

"Wait, _what_? Berkeley? Bastion of integrity Berkeley?"

"Inte-what? Zach, Berkeley is a business. Chris is their shiny, gorgeous cog. So you tell Chris this: either he works directly with Paramount, collects _his_ paycheck, and builds you a city-block sized addition to Castle Homo, or he works for Paramount through Berkeley and maybe sees 3% of that five mil."

Business!Zach steps in and asks, "Working for Paramount directly would mean he gets an executive producer role, am I right?"

"It could. Does this mean I'm going back with good news?"

"You're going back to make it clear that Chris gets that executive producer credit, and that any additional consultants Paramount hires would report to him and have to be approved by him." He pauses and adds, "Also, I want Before the Door in on it."

"Oh my God," Margot says. "Zach. How do you feel about vaginas because --"

"Call me when you hear something," Zach says quickly, and rushes out of the restaurant because fuck, he isn't sure what just happened but Chris is probably going to kill him.

"Zach!" Margot calls just as he reaches the door. "One more thing!"

Zach halts and takes a deep breath before he turns around walks back to the table, taking his seat across Margot again.

"While your confidence _is_ inspiring, Chris hasn't been exactly... receptive of any of Paramount's offers yet," she begins.

"No shit, Margot, but this sounds like something he might actually do -- it's not acting, it's Mark Twain --"

"Zach," Margot says slowly, a smile that shouldn't be on her face making its way on there again, "It's been six years since Chris packed up shop and left for the ivory tower, is that right?"

"Uh. Yeah?"

"Paramount and Berkeley think this joint production of the Twain book-and-movie could be quite big, and it's not something either of them wants to shelve."

"Okay..."

"When you propose all this to Chris, let him know that it's not really a proposal. It's the opportunity to get back into Paramount's good graces."

"And why should he -- oh."

"Oh sweetie," Margot coos. "I do love that look on you. Don't you think those three words are the most beautiful in any language?" She sighs and exhales the phrase, "_breach of contract_," and mother of fucking everything, they are _fucked_.

*

A day or two later on one of Zach's precious days off, Zach's phone rings just as Chris walks out of his study, netbook in hand, glasses on the edge of his nose and eyebrows raised.

"Zach," he begins.

"Hold on, it's Corey," Zach says as he answers. "What's up?"

"A _Mark Twain_ biopic?!" Corey shrieks.

"I didn't know your beard let your voice get that high."

"And _Chris_ as an executive producer? Zach, _what_?!"

"Wait, they said yes to that?"

"Video call in two hours and until then, Neal and I are going to practice killing you with our minds."

"Corey, I haven't heard anything back so forward whatever to me --"

"Okay, check your phone. Two hours, okay? And if you can get Chris on there, too --"

"We'll see if I'm alive in two hours, but I'll try and be there."

"ZACH!" Corey screams once more before he hangs up. Zach puts his phone down and it vibrates immediately to indicate a new e-mail. He focuses on Chris, hoping it's unrelated but knowing it's probably not.

"Why do I have a contract from Paramount in my inbox?" Chris asks. "More importantly, why does the university's chancellor want to meet with me _immediately_?"

"So, uh, remember that meeting I had with Margot?"

"Oh my God," Chris exhales. "You didn't -- you didn't agree to anything, did you? Oh my God. What the _fuck_ could have --"

"Chris, have you even read the e-mail?" Zach asks.

"I don't _have to_ \-- Zach, I don't _do_ that anymore, okay, and I can't believe --"

"Shut up," Zach says and he climbs out of the recliner so they can be at eye-level with each other. "It's a Mark Twain biopic."

"What?!" Chris shrieks, which has Zach briefly wonder if it's something in the water or whether he really did fuck up and make an incredibly stupid decision for all the people in his life. "What in the _hell_ could have made you think --"

"You'd be an executive producer, _not_ an actor," Zach interrupts. "Corey was calling me because apparently Paramount said okay to Before the Door also producing -- Chris, you'd be the head consultant on the movie, with the caveat that I'd murder anyone who took a step without your permission and pull our money out of it. And it's Paramount paying you! You'd be good with them again!"

"Zach," Chris says slowly, and he shakes his head. "Zach I can't."

"Chris, they really want this movie to happen," Zach says, putting his hands on Chris's shoulders, trying to meet his eyes. "That's probably what the chancellor wants to talk to you about -- either you do it our way or Berkeley's way, and you are going to get _screwed_ if you do it Berkeley's way. But you _have_ to do it."

"You're missing the point here, Zach!" Chris replies. "I _don't do_ this bullshit anymore -- Hollywood -- movies -- I don't, it's just. I physically _cannot do it_. If I take one step, if I give in even just a little, that means they can drag me back and I can't _do that_." Chris puts his computer down and Zach, again, can't figure out if Chris is being genuine or if he was always this good at acting and making his eyes water on cue.

(Oh God, how could he doubt _Chris_? If he doubts that, then what's the point of any of this?)

"You know, Zach," Chris says, and Zach knows it's bad when Chris is using his name this often, like some kind of crutch to get him through every sentence and every feeling. "You know how difficult it's been for me to get to this point and now I should just --"

"Chris, what part of _Berkeley wants this_ are you not hearing? And _Paramount_ wants this. If you piss either of them off, they are going to _end_ you -- Chris!" Zach tightens his grip on Chris's shoulders and says slowly, "The breach of contract suit. They're going to file it if you don't agree to consult. They're playing nice right now, but they won't for long, so you should set up that meeting and --"

"Why are you saying that like I'm actually going to do it?" Chris asks. "I'm writing back or calling them or whatever, it's -- I'm not doing it. They can get someone else because I'm not doing this."

Zach lets go of Chris and covers his mouth because he honestly can_not_ believe Chris is this fucking stubborn, like, stubborn to the point of _stupidity_.

"You are a _fucking moron_!" Zach says, half shocked and half laughing and it all seems really eerily familiar for a minute. "You have people with more power than you can even conceive of bending over backwards to accommodate you and you -- are you _kidding_?"

"I'm not doing this," Chris repeats.

Zach stares at him for a moment and mimics Chris's pose, the defiant arms-crossed-over-their-chests look with a matching really tough open-legged stance for their giant balls of obstinance.

"You really are this selfish," Zach says, a little softer than he would have liked but he can't help the realization seeping into his brain.

"Zach --"

"We've had this fight before," Zach says. "And you're still that selfish, that -- it's called _compromise_, Chris, remember?!"

"I've spent my entire _life_ compromising --"

"No, actually, _you haven't_," Zach says, and he holds out a hand to tick points off. "Born to rich fucking parents who have been together your whole life and love and support you no matter what, sent to the best schools in the country, lived off them while you kind of maybe acted, became a _huge_ fucking actor and then stopped doing that --"

"Okay, I get it, Zach --"

"-- when it got too _unpleasant_ for you, and then just left all that, and -- oh my God, what about me?"

"It's always about you, isn't it?" Chris replies angrily and wow, he just. He _does not get it_. It knocks the breath out of Zach for a moment and Zach honestly can't move for like, _seconds_ before the yelling _really_ starts.

"No, it isn't, Chris! It has _never_ been about me when it comes to you, not for one fucking minute of one fucking day! I'm talking about the part where I've spent the past six years supporting you, protecting you, defending you, and making sure that you got everything you wanted."

"I'm sorry, you never mentioned I'd have to pay you back someday -- who should I make the check out to?"

"Okay, never mind how _offensive_ that is to me on every level imaginable," Zach begins. "You need to put on your big boy panties and go look over your Berkeley contract, and then the one Paramount sent you, and consider your choice really carefully."

"Whatever," Chris says, because if he was a sulky sixteen-year-old before, he's just regressed to like, _eight_ at best.

"Chris, I'm not fucking kidding. Get a lawyer to look them over for you and they'll tell you what I'm trying to tell you -- you have to do this or we are _both_ ruined. Like, can't-afford-to-feed-the-dogs-never-mind-ourselves ruined." Zach rubs a hand over his face because Chris is looking away, and both of them -- they've never fought like this. How can -- does one of them walk away now? Do they make dinner together later? Is Chris going to work on the couch while Zach reads? Can Zach wander into Chris's office and drape himself over Chris's shoulders and distract him from his work? How could people do this regularly?

It's his phone vibrating again with that e-mail notification that makes the decision for him, apparently.

"I need to get this," Zach says.

"Okay," Chris says quietly. "I'll -- I'm going to let Topanga out, she was whining before."

Zach grabs his hand and they're still for a moment, like that can actually do something --

Chris squeezes back and heads to the French doors, leaving Zach standing in the living room victorious and feeling really shitty about it.

*

This is how Stan enters their lives (though how Chris instills the fear of god into him is another story entirely.)

Two or three days after the Battle of Berkeley, Stan comes over and Zach spends the first twenty minutes trying to figure out what that _smell_ is.

"Right, so," Stan says as he spreads his papers out on their table in front of Chris. He points to Zach and asks Chris, "Is he here as your domestic partner or as a Before the Door partner?"

"Uh," Chris stammers. "Domestic...?"

"Make up your fucking mind, princess, because if it's the latter he needs to swish back to his Sears modeling gig before we start."

Zach is kind of in love and only mildly offended.

"Common law husband," Zach says.

"Nope," Stan replies, not looking up from his papers. "Common law marriages aren't recognized in California and even if they were, one of you doesn't have a vagina. You're partners, so sit down and shut up and I don't want to hear about the role your production company plays in this, okay?"

"That's fine," Zach says, and he sits down.

"Anyway," Stan begins, "Looking these over, calling Berkeley's counsel -- what a slimy sack of shit, by the way, don't let that bitch get into any of your business -- I've determined that your _partner_ here is right and you should take Paramount's offer."

"Uh, why?" Chris asks.

"Uh," Stan mocks, "because you're not a fucking idiot?"

Zach opens his mouth to say something because it's one thing for _him_ to say that to Chris, but -- he doesn't. Chris needs to hear it from someone else.

Chris knows it and his eyes dart over to look at Zach a little helplessly.

"Now, I don't know --"

"Patchouli!" Zach whispers to himself.

Stan stares at him for a second, shakes his head, and looks at Chris.

"I don't know what kind of moral objection you have to doing this movie and frankly, I don't give a fuck. You asked me how bad it would be if you didn't and I'm telling you: it would be _very bad_."

"How bad?" Chris asks.

"Ruining your life," Stan says. "I also called Paramount's counsel and they -- kid, you only got out of your Trek contract by the grace of J.J. Abrams not pressing charges and the economy picking back up around that time, so they could afford to just slide Trek to the backburner until you change your mind."

"That's not going to happen."

"They know that," Stan says, "which is why they will _officially_ drop all that nasty business if you come work for them on this one little project."

Chris groans and slouches into his chair.

"And how does Berkeley come into this?" Zach asks.

"That is something particular to Dr. Pine here," Stan says with a grin that makes Zach feel unpleasantly dirty all over. "On paper, Dr. Pine is an untenured postdoc, working on a little project about whoever, right?"

"Uh, it's a little more than --" Chris begins but Stan actually shushes him.

"I _know_. Here's the catch: your contract in particular has a clause about 'complete cooperation' with all aspects of the project's production, probably aware of the fact that you've bolted from projects before. Berkeley's counsel made it clear that she will twist that cooperation clause to mean all works produced with the university. Once the movie's officially given a go, that'll establish a connection between Paramount and Berkely and if you back out, they'll both come after you for breach of contract."

"Fuck," Chris says.

"And remember: Paramount still has your _first_ little breach of contract thing saved up for a rainy day, but like I said -- they'd be willing to forgive that for your complete cooperation on their movie."

"And if I don't --"

"Is he serious?" Stan asks Zach, who keeps his expression completely blank. Stan turns to Chris again, cups his hands around his mouth and says, "_You will never work again_." He lowers his hands and asks, "Who's going to hire a 40-year-old has-been action star with a Ph.D in English and three breach of contract suits on their record?"

Chris is 37, but that doesn't soften the blow. Zach rubs a foot against Chris's calf and watches him carefully across the table.

"The bitch at Berkeley did corroborate what Paramount counsel said: say yes now, you'll be hired as Dr. Chris Pine and can keep your $5 mil; say no, then you'll be doing the work through your Berkeley contract and you'll get 10% for just as much work."

"What stake does Before the Door have in everything?" Chris asks and Zach stares at him, baffled.

Stan sighs, looks at Zach, and then replies as if by rote, "Before the Door Productions will provide 15% of the film's financial backing in exchange for their partners' executive producer rights and privileges to the film."

"15% is a lot," Chris says to Zach.

Zach could sit there and scream _NO FUCKING SHIT, YOU INFANT, BUT I DO IT FOR YOU_.

He shrugs instead.

"So I've made an appointment for you with the Berkeley chancellor and the rest of the college's board," Stan says, "and then we can --"

"Wait, I haven't hired you --" Chris begins.

Stan stares at him and Chris meekly replies, "Hired."

"_Thank you._ Anyway, I did a little early work with Berkeley counsel so that at this meeting, we'll agree to develop a new timeline where the last volume of the Twain memoirs will be published six weeks before the premiere of the film -- approximately three years from now, so you have about two to get it all done. First, you'll develop for Paramount a treatment of the project, which they can approve, revise, or reject."

"If they reject it?" Chris asks and Zach laughs because that's not a silver lining he sees, not even a little.

"They get someone else to develop a treatment and then you do the research to make that treatment possible," Stan says. "So it's in your best interest if they don't reject it since you want to retain all this creative control."

Chris sulks a little and asks, "And for the next three years --"

"You work on the Twain memoirs and the movie stuff concurrently."

Chris doesn't agree, so Stan sighs and says, "Frankly, this is a better deal than you deserve and if you hesitate on accepting, the deal changes. Price drops to $2 mil and with that kind of drop, you're going to lose a whole lot of privileges you'd get otherwise."

"I hate everything," Chris informs Zach.

"Big boy panties, one leg at a time," Zach says.

"That's my cue to get the fuck out of here," Stan says as he packs his papers up again. "Boys, I'll be in touch."

Once they're alone again, that awkwardness Zach has avoided by working late all week at BTD's San Francisco office (i.e., calling his mom to whine about Chris being awful and then reading Gawker and OhNoTheyDidnt until the cleaning crew arrived) comes back in full force, worse now because _Chris_ knows he was wrong and, haha, Chris apologizing, that should be fun.

"So," Chris begins, standing by the door with his hand in his hair and looking really sheepish and sad. "15%?"

"What?" Zach asks. "Uh, yeah. Berkeley's the other big backer, through the university and the university press so they've got a lot of overall influence, but I figured --"

"Baby," Chris says suddenly, and he crosses the living room to straddle Zach on the chair and grin a little. "When did you get so _smart_ about shit?"

"Uh," Zach says stupidly because, what? Chris's arms are on Zach's shoulders and his hands are playing with his hair and -- what? Weren't they _mad_ two minutes ago? At each other? Like, really mad? "It's kind of what I've been doing, you know, this entire time. My job? The thing that bought us this house and everything in it?"

"I thought you were just making comic books and things!"

"Okay, seriously? 'Comic books and things'? Now I'm just --"

They kiss for the first time in _three days_ and Zach realizes what a horrible feeling it is to have missed someone while living in the same house with them.

"Yeah," Zach says as he breaks the kiss to breathe. "I told Neal and Corey it was an investment in my sanity."

"Mostly mine," Chris murmurs.

"Mine is yours, yours is mine. Joint tax returns, joint sanity, yeah --"

"I'm so sorry," Chris interrupts, and then says, "Hold on."

He leaves Zach's lap, puts his hands in his pockets, looks Zach plain in the face and says, "Zach, I am so sorry I said those really awful things to you."

Zach swallows and says, "They were the worst things anyone has _ever_ said to me."

"I'm so sorry," he repeats soberly.

"You need to grow up a little, Chris." He sits up and pulls Chris into his lap again. "You can't say those things to me just because you're mad. And you can't -- it's not, never has been and never will be, about you _owing_ me anything, but the fact that you didn't _want_ to do this for me -- for _us_ \-- like. What?"

"I just --" Chris wraps his arms around Zach's neck and closes his eyes as he hides his face near Zach's shoulder. "It feels like it did before everything, you know? Before the Oscars when I was just. Flailing around trying to drink my coffee and not be seen and --"

"You idiot, it's different now," Zach says. "Remember the part where now you can be out and proud and --"

"I still want my privacy."

"Well fuck that," Zach says, and he grips Chris a little tighter around his waist. "For the next three years we get to _work together_ and yell at people together -- Chris, you get to help _pick_ who plays Mark Twain."

Chris considers it and says, "He needs to have really good hair. Like, these long fucking curls and, well, duh, the stache."

"I think I'll grow one in Twain's honor," Zach says.

"No you won't."

"No, probably not."

*

After that, it's surprisingly easy for them to sign all the contracts and move to LA for two years.

Settling into their LA house (i.e., Zach's old house, where he lived out The Trek Years) is a little more difficult.

For one thing, it being Zach's old house, there's a fucking 10-foot wall around the entire property.

"What if we have to escape?!" Chris shrieks.

Granted, Chris asked that when they were just friends and he visited, and he asked that when they were fucking and Zach's house was so much bigger than his shitty apartment a few blocks away, and he asked whenever he thought to ask, but now it was a genuine question.

"Who would we have to escape? Your puppy, Cujo?"

"Way to date yourself, buddy."

"Scared the shit out of my mom -- it's why we never had a dog when I was growing up."

Topanga chooses that moment to run outside and bark at a squirrel along the wall.

"Goddammit, she's rabid," Chris whimpers. "How are we going to escape?"

"Uh, we walk out the front gate," Zach begins, and he takes Chris's hand and leads him around to the front of the house, "And we leave. And lock it behind us. And we go to Lamill."

Chris digs his heels into the concrete and shakes his head. "I will never need coffee that bad."

"I didn't want to tell you this before we got here, but," Zach says slowly, and they stand in front of the house, both his hands holding both of Chris's, "Lamill coffee? Has gotten even better than you remember."

"How can it get better than _perfection_?" Chris asks.

Zach drops Chris's hands, puts his hands in his pockets, and begins strolling down the street, taking their usual way (well, usual what, seven years ago?) to Lamill.

".........dammit," Chris hisses as he runs after Zach and nudges him until he almost crashes into a wall.

They run into exactly one photographer just outside Lamill, who yells at Zach but lets Chris sneak inside mostly unnoticed, and that's the start of things not being horrible anymore.

Zach notices, with relief, that it gets better when Chris actually gets back to working on what he was sent to LA for, but there's still that -- childishness and petulance that Zach thought was endearing until it almost cost them everything they had (and make no fucking mistake about it -- it was _everything they had_.)

"No one said it would be this hard," Chris whines when Zach walks in after spending the day at the studio.

Zach stops in the doorway and looks around because Chris had decided not to work in any of the bedrooms, or his newly furnished office, or _Zach's_ office, or even the kitchen table -- instead, he had spread his netbook and books and papers all over the living room floor and camped out there. He was pretty sure Noah was flopped on volume II of Chris's life-work and he somehow didn't mind.

"Was that a _Coldplay_ lyric? Oh my God, get your leash. You need to get out of the house."

"Zach, no, it was a joke --"

"Coldplay is _never_ a joke. Come on."

Zach's heart breaks a little when Topanga rushes in with a leash in her teeth, looking eagerly towards the door.

"I hope you're happy," Zach tells Chris. "You've made her _work_ like her breed intended."

And they go out and walk and talk and bicker and Chris grows up a little.

Just a little, but a little every time.

Zach notices that Chris gets bigger sunglasses, shaves less frequently, runs (not jogs) with Topanga every day until he glides in through their front gates and has to catch his breath while Topanga looks exhilarated and whines the dog equivalent of "LET'S DO IT AGAIN!"

Eventually (_EVENTUALLY_), Chris shows up at mandatory production meetings and, because the other producers are Zach, Zach's best friends, and the guy who produced _The Princess Diaries 2_ (the one who didn't make his life a waking nightmare), Chris gets by.

It's nice, Zach reflects, when your boyfriend/partner/husbandoid/best friend/joint-pet-owner of a billion years no longer hates the industry that brought you together and supports him, even if he can't quite let go of that look in his eyes that suggests he wants to burn down the entire film industry in a fire ignited by his own vitriol.

And one day about a year in, they're in a production meeting and the casting agent announces they've just signed a contract with the starlet who will play Isabel opposite James Franco's Twain (and boy, the James Franco thing took a few minutes, especially when they remembered that whole art gallery fiasco a few years before, but Chris acquiesced on the basis of his hair and a flourishing mustache.)

"Abigail Breslin," the agent says.

"Oh my God, how old is she?!" James shrieks.

"She's twenty-two," the agent replies. "You're only for--"

"Jesus Christ, she's my college baby," James moans, and then sits up straight and corrects, "Not that I had one."

Chris snorts and bursts out laughing right at the table, and has to cover his mouth with his hands while he tries to suppress his laughter, but it's not fucking happening. James sighs and says something about it probably being historically accurate, and Chris nods while his eyes water. He looks to Zach on his left and laughs even harder and fuck, it wasn't even that funny but everyone laughs all the harder because Chris has finally let the fuck go.


	7. Dutchbag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris looks up from his chicken salad sandwich to see her biting at the inside of her cheeks for a second before letting out a snort of laughter. "Oh my God, just -- I'm sorry, I just imagined Zach with a woman, hold up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a birthday gift for Traveller; I was like, "Hey, what would you like?" and she was like, "Well, I know you'd never write it, but I'd love more Dr. and Princess Whitelaw," and I was all, "... oh honey, NO PROBLEM."
> 
> Only it DID turn out to be a problem, because this is supposed to be a lot longer and involve various matchmaking shenanigans. However, screamlet has assured me that she will help me write that bit. In the meantime, Happy BDay Traveller! Don't do what Chris does.
> 
> **EDIT:** As of 1/23 -- screamlet helped write those matchmaking bits and this section is Done!

The first time Chris met Abigail Breslin was during filming of _Princess Diaries II: Royal Engagement_. (Anne called it _Princess Diaries II: Electric Boogaloo_ and refused to explain why.) He doesn't remember much about what she looked like -- about waist height and big eyes and brown hair, your average waif -- the only reason he remembered her name is because she spelled it every time she was introduced to someone new, and on a location shoot with about fifty crew and a hundred fifty extras, all day he could hear "A-B-I-G-A-I-L. Just one L at the end" wafting toward him on the wind.

But mostly he remembers her for what she heard.

"So whatever douchebag is in charge of the shoe portion of my wardrobe ought to be taken out and shot," Anne said, stomping over to where Chris and John were sitting, as part of the adoring crowd. She slumped in the seat next to John and swung her feet up onto his lap. "John, you're British, can't you do something?"

"You really must stop listening to Julie," John told her, gently pushing her feet off. "Contrary to her claims, British citizens are not endowed with any magical powers."

Anne just made the sad puppy face at him, then turned it on Chris when it didn't seem to get her anywhere.

"I'm from the Valley!" he protested.

"What's a dutchbag?" came a voice from behind Chris.

All three of them flinched. Abigail was standing there clutching at her prop tiara and sucking her thumb. Chris wondered if she was Method, then remembered she was five.

"Uh, it's... a..." he started, before running out of steam.

"Well," John continued, then turned to Anne.

"It's someone you don't like who makes your life a misery," Anne concluded, then added, "Don't say it in front of your parents. But you should totally say it in front of Julie. Like a lot."

"There are so many things wrong with you," Chris said.

"I know, right?" Anne laughed.

Abigail frowned. "But what's bad about Dutch people?" she asked.

"Well they make these bags," Anne says, "And they--"

"All right, everyone on their marks! Anne, I see you try to take off those shoes one more time I am nailing them to your feet!" It wasn't like Garry Marshall really needed a megaphone; he could whisper something at one end of a soundstage and be heard loud and clear on the other. But someone had decided that what this shoot needed was a director who was drunk with power and also volume.

"That thing hurts my ears," Abigail observed.

"Mine, too," Anne said, taking Abigail by the hand to lead her back toward the fake-orphanage. "You know what Mr. Marshall is?"

"A dutchbag?" Abigail said hopefully.

"That's right!" Anne said. They kept walking, thankfully, and Chris couldn't hear any more. He glanced over at John, who was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Such a genteel young lady," he said mournfully. "I'm so glad she's such a shining example to the young people."

"Me too," Chris sighed, and wondered what it said about him that John didn't think of him as a young person.

*

The first time Zach met Abigail Breslin was at the callbacks for _Nim's Island_; he was supposed to be Abbie's father and Jodie Foster's love interest, and the whole thing was pretty hilarious. Still, _Star Trek_ hadn't been fully cast yet and without a full cast and commitment, the whole thing could still end up imploding. So. Auditions.

Abbie was cute and giggly and she had a retainer, so they bonded over that for a while before the producer asked them to read. Zach did his best but kept remembering how if he got this part, he and Jodie Foster -- Jodie motherfucking Agent Starling Foster -- would have to pretend to want in each other's pants.

He wasn't hugely surprised when the producer and director kind of stared at him afterwards and said, "So yeah! We'll call you."

He managed to get out of the studio before reaching for his cigarettes, and he inhaled the first lungful just in time to hear, "So wouldn't it be awesome if you got the part?"

"Blahgh," Zach replied (shrieked, would probably be more accurate) as he choked on and then spit out his cigarette. He spun around and Abbie was standing there blinking innocently. He smoothed back his hair and said, "Uh, why would that be?"

"Because it'd be awesome to have two costars who didn't actually make out with each other during filming," she said. "Like, I mean, I don't care or whatever, but it's gross. Like I'm pretty sure it's not even hygienic."

Zach choked again, this time on his own tongue. "Uh-huh," he said after he managed to get the laughing and coughing under control. "And what makes you think Jodie and I won't make out with each other?" he asked.

Abbie just leaned against the studio door and squinted up at him. She didn't bring out any sunglasses, and Zach found himself shuffling to the left a few inches so his shadow blocked the sun. "Duh," was all she said, but the tone gave away a lot.

"Fair enough," Zach admitted, and dug out another cigarette. He caught Abbie watching him light it and said, "Don't even think about asking for a drag off of this," he warned. "I'm not big on sharing."

She wrinkled her nose up even more, and for a second Zach could see what kind of woman she was going to grow up to be: beautiful and kind of funny-looking all at once. "I'm ten," she said, "And my mom says smoking stunts your growth, and no way am I going to be four feet and nine inches forever."

"That would be pretty awful," Zach said.

"So did you know I tried out for 'Heroes'?" she asked.

Zach blinked and bit back the first question that came to mind -- if she tried out for the cheerleader or the stripper. "Yeah?" he said instead.

"Yeah, for the Molly Walker part, you know, the--" and she closed her eyes and waved one finger around, before putting it down on an invisible map. "But that total dutchbag Addy got it."

Zach coughed out his second cigarette.

*

Chris runs into Abigail for the second time about an hour after he implodes his acting career on national television. His publicist Kyle got him an actual honest-to-god interview with Jon Stewart on _The Daily Show_, "For promoting Tony's movie, okay?" Kyle told him sternly beforehand. "Not so you and Jon Stewart can talk about, whatever, health care or the election or orphans."

And Chris really did mean to stay on the straight and narrow -- _Unstoppable_ was his last movie, he should probably at least do everyone the courtesy of pretending to give a flying fuck -- but then Jon came into the green room before the show and asked if Chris was really sleeping with that brain-eating guy who tried to seduce BriWi last year at the upfronts.

And things just kind of went downhill from there.

So now Chris is wandering the streets under cover of darkness, and also cover of sunglasses and a hat that Zach has tried to burn at least twice, when he hears, "Hey, Chris! Chris?"

It's harder to turn around than it should be; Chris went immediately from the interview to the nearest bar and stayed there until the bartender's fisheye had gotten too oppressive. He's pretty sure it's after midnight; he's also pretty sure he's shitfaced.

He blinks down at the small person with the beret. "Hi?"

"Hey, I thought it was you," Small Person says, slightly out of breath.

"I think it is, too," Chris says. "Although I'm not a hundred percent. Get back to me in, like, a day or two." He blinks a couple more times and a name pops up. "A-B-I-G-A-I-L, right?"

Abigail smiles with her whole face. "Yeah! Hi. Wow," she adds when he weaves a little further to the right than is advisable; she catches him by the shoulder. "So I guess this answers the question about whether or not you know that the interview's been broadcast."

"I left my phone at _The Daily Show_," Chris confesses. "In a trash can." He thinks about it for a minute. "In a couple of different pieces."

"Okay," Abigail says.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" he frowns. "I'm pretty sure you're still under five feet, you're not supposed to be out in the middle of Hell's Kitchen when you're under five feet."

Instead of answering, though, Abigail just purses her lips and says, "Yeah, I'm going to take you back to your hotel. Where are you?"

"I don't know," Chris says helplessly. He's been staying with Zach, but he's a coward and maybe a hotel room would be safer for the evening, just until he manages to get over the fact that he did, in fact, tell the world that he was happier being Zachary Quinto's houseboy than he's ever been making movies. So, in about a month he should be fine.

Abigail sighs and hails a cab, heaving Chris inside and making an irritated sound when he slumps down on her shoulder. "He was going to make crepes for us tomorrow," he realizes, and it's the most awful thing to realize ever.

"Technically it is tomorrow," Abigail tells him, patting his head kind of awkwardly. Chris closes his eyes and he can hear her murmuring to someone, maybe the cab driver, maybe on the phone, but the next thing he knows they're pulling up to a cute little two-story house.

"Are we in Ohio?" he asks blankly.

"Brooklyn. I'm staying with my aunt; there's a spare room and she said it was okay," Abigail says.

"I'm really sorry," Chris says. He's a lot more than that -- he's not sure exactly how to quantify how sorry he is.

"No, it's fine," she says absently, paying the driver and tugging Chris out of the cab, "When we were filming _Zombieland_, Woody would hotbox his trailer like, all the time."

"Oh God, you know what hotboxing is, that's terrible," Chris mumbles as they arrive at the front door.

Said door is yanked open to reveal a really, really pissed-off looking Zach. Abigail looks delighted. "Hey, Zachariah!" she says.

"Hey, dutchbag," he says, smiling fractionally.

Chris bends over and horfs on his shoes.

So instead of spending a long and sleepless night in Zach's one-bedroom, wanting to die while Zach shrieks about publicity and timing and they hadn't even discussed telling the public at this point, Chris gets to sit on the floor of the downstairs bathroom in Abigail Breslin's Aunt Layla's house while Zach and Abigail sit on the bathtub edge and calmly discuss all the ways in which Chris is a dumbass. Aunt Layla brings them all organic ginger ale and insists that they stay the night once Chris has finished with his puking. In the morning, there's ham and eggs and Billy Joel music in the kitchen, and Chris and Zach leave around noon still holding hands.

*

"... and ever since then, whenever Zach sees her, he calls her a dutchbag," Chris says. "It's kind of cute, except for how I'm honestly a little worried that someday he's going to give breasts a try and have an affair with her."

Caite nods solemnly, which is a trick considering she's sucking down the daiquiri in front of her with kind of single-minded focus. She flags down a waitress, who drifts over. "Yeah," Caite tells her, "Another one of these? That'd be super."

"It's eleven-thirty," Chris points out. "In the morning."

This only gets him an eyeroll and a loud slurp as she hits the bottom of the glass. "Sweetheart," she says, and Chris winces reflexively because whenever Caite calls someone "sweetheart," some shit's about to go down, "I love you more than my luggage, you know that, but you claimed that you wanted to talk me because you need a new wardrobe -- which, bee tee dubs, you really do, you're wearing a fucking maroon belt right now and there's just no excuse for that -- and now you're getting manfeelings all over me. Not cool, dude."

"You know, you weren't nearly this big a bitch when we first met," Chris pouts.

"That's because you were all hot and brooding and Kirky back then and everyone wanted to dress you," Caite says dismissively. "Or undress you -- yeah, I said it!" she adds, and raises her hand for a high-five.

Chris has to give it to her.

"So annnnyway, do you, in fact, need some fashion advice from me, or am I just making you pay for this lunch so that you can talk about your man and how..." she pauses, and Chris looks up from his chicken salad sandwich to see her biting at the inside of her cheeks for a second before letting out a snort of laughter. "Oh my God, just -- I'm sorry, I just imagined Zach with a woman, hold up."

"I really hate you," Chris says. "Just to be clear."

"Whatever, you love me, I'm the only one who can find you tuxes that you don't want to burn after wearing."

This is true. Over the past two decades Chris hasn't employed Caite so much as he's received both really great red-carpet outfits and really appalling bills from her at irregular intervals. He suspects she and Zach have some sort of nefarious scheme running, but right at the moment he's too worried about all the time Zach's been spending with Abigail Breslin, the Meg Ryan of the 20's.

He wonders if anyone even watches _Sleepless in Seattle_ anymore.

*

"We can't afford this," Chris tries to point out for the seventy frillionth time. It hasn't worked so far, and they're already in the lobby of the building where the apartment that they _completely cannot afford_ resides, but Chris believes in persistence. "Zach, this is _Harrison Ford's ex-apartment_, we _can't afford this_."

Zach shakes Chris off from where he's plucking at his sleeve and signs in, smiling at the suspicious-looking security guard. "Honey," he says, tossing down the pen and strolling over to the elevator bank, "And you know I say this with love, but shut up. We could totally afford this: _TWAIN_ is bringing in plenty of backing, and some Wall Street guy shot himself here a few months ago, so the asking price is crazy low."

For a second all Chris can think is that he doesn't want to live in a haunted apartment, even if it is a penthouse, even if it does have access to the roof.

"And it's not haunted," Zach adds as the elevator doors open.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Chris tries to scoff, but then a hand grabs at the closing elevator doors and maybe he shrieks a _little_ bit.

The hand belongs to someone tall and generically handsome, but behind him is--

"Dutchbag?" Zach squeals.

Abigail, who is still four-foot-tiny, lights up and grabs hold of Zach like they're best girlfriends. And then Chris recognizes the guy, Chris Evans, the boyfriend/semi-pedo who very publicly swept Abigail off her feet a couple of years ago after playing her uncle in some indie movie. Chris nods; Evans nods back. It's amazingly awkward, especially when Chris remembers he beat this guy to get Kirk and this guy beat him to get Captain America.

The apartment is incredible and vaguely creepy, although Chris has to admit he's more weirded out by the fact that Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart probably had sex somewhere on the premises than the fact that the balcony he's standing on has a teensy little bloodstain on it. The real estate guy makes broad sweeping gestures and talks about square footage, and Chris tries not to judge Evans for the fact that he's got his hand on the ass of someone who was six when he graduated high school.

Abigail and Zach decide to go to lunch afterward and drag their respective men with them; Chris makes conversation as polite as he knows how, but honestly, the last time he was this worried about Zach's virtue he'd just realized that Jacob was legal. Abigail's _giggling_, and Zach keeps touching her hair, talking about how they're going to style it for the movie.

"So," Evans says, clearing his throat. Chris blinks at him. He really does look like a composite image of what five or six different pretty people look like, not an actual person at all. "How'd you meet Abigail?"

"She spelled her name at me," Chris says, and calls the waiter over for another bottle of beer.

*

The whole thing implodes in a really impressive way while they're filming _TWAIN_; Evans proposes and Abigail thinks he's kidding, which leads to a lot of tabloid covers for about three weeks. Franco offers to either punch Evans or set bags of poop on fire at the end of his driveway, but Abigail doesn't seem that bothered.

Until the day after filming wraps and she turns up in San Francisco on Chris and Zach's doorstep.

"Uh," Chris says, because there's a sobbing, rain-bedraggled girl getting thoroughly sniffed by the dogs in his foyer and although he does, in fact, have experience in these matters, he's a little rusty. "How was the flight?"

"I drank gin and tonics until they took away my credit card," Abigail hiccups. "He hates me and I'm going to die _alone_. Surrounded by dogs that aren't as cute as these ones."

Chris opens his mouth to argue that since Topanga and Noah are the cutest dogs ever, that might not be such a terrible fate, when Zach steps on his foot and says, "I'll get some Kleenex."

"I'll get some more gin," Chris decides.

"I'm going to throw up," Abigail adds.

So it's _Bathroom Sharing Time Part II: Electric Boogaloo_, and when she finally falls asleep on the bathroom floor they cover her with a quilt and try wedging a bolster pillow under her head. The next morning she makes them eggs and turkey bacon and makes fun of the fact that they _have_ turkey bacon, and Zach tells her that he's heard Dakota Fanning's recently single.

(Zach hasn't recanted setting _that_ up yet, citing how gorgeous they looked at the Grammys together, which: true. Except then Chris and Abigail can bring up the concept album Dakota released the next year [post-super-public breakup] with cover art featuring a dead baby lamb and _A.B._ etched into its side. Zach still thinks that's a victory for him, since the album was totally cathartic and got Dakota and Kristen Stewart back together so they could adopt those twin Chinese girls and live sanely ever after.)

*

Tenure for Chris means job security, a place at Berkeley he can call his until he dies/retires, money for cardigans and scarves, and summers in LA.

One of those things is not like the other, because one of those things sends him to his manicurist once a week so she can stab him in the leg when (as he tells Zach) the smog makes him gnaw at his cuticles.

So Zach institutes weekly lunch dates and Chris gets ready for the first one, arming himself with his smartphone, noise-canceling earbuds, heaviest sunglasses, summer beard, and strict orders to stab himself with his keys if he feels like panicking and going back home to San Francisco or moving to Morocco or something.

"I made it," Chris sighs as he enters Before the Door's suite in downtown LA, but the relief vaporizes when he sees a 19-year-old Calvin Klein model sitting behind the desk, glancing at him expectantly.

"Oh, you must be Mr. Quinto's domestic partner," the Byronic ideal said.

"Is that what he calls me?" Chris asks, suddenly aware that he hasn't spoken to anyone but the dogs all day and might sound like a booze-encrusted hobo to Real People out in the Real World. (He still his sunglasses on and that probably doesn't help, but ask how many fucks he gives.) "I'm Chris."

"Hi, Chris, I'm Lindsay," he says, and stands up to shake Chris's hand. "So, Mr. Quinto wanted me to tell you --"

"Is that -- is he _bailing_ on me?" Chris asks. "But I came all the -- _what_? Is _Mr. Quinto_ around or --"

"So, I'm new here," Lindsay explains, "And Mr. Quinto only realized a little while ago that he had triple-booked --"

"Wow, Zach," Chris laughs dryly. "Wait, who did he choose over me? Lindsay. I feel like we know each other, and you can tell me this sort of thing."

"Chris?" a voice asks behind him. "I didn't recognize you with the beard. Also, you're not screaming at anyone."

Chris turns around and sees Jacob standing in the doorway, Jacob, who he is contractually obliged by his partner-spouse to smile at and be nice to under penalty of no more blowjobs.

Ever.

Chris smiles and even hugs Jacob, knowing there are security cameras and Zach might be hiding in his office like a creeper, staging his own private reality show and _why is Chris like this_, really, Chris loves Zach when he doesn't have to prove it by going downtown to "do lunch".

Or, rather, he loves Zach even when he _does_ have to prove it by going downtown to "do lunch".

"Mr. Kogan," Lindsay's faint voice sighs behind Chris, sounding weird enough that Chris has to turn around and flip his sunglasses up and onto his head. Lindsay has stood up and is pressing the tips of his fingers into the glass tabletop of his desk as he leans forward a little, really -- Jesus, that is _fawning_ and Chris clears his throat to save the kid some fucking face.

"That's Lindsay," Chris interrupts. "He's new. If you're here to have lunch with Zach, then you're fucked."

"Oh," Jacob says. "Then I am." He sputters a little and shakes his head. "I'm here to have lunch with Zach and I'm also fucked, apparently."

"We're so sorry for the mixup," Lindsay says softly. "You can wait for Mr. Quinto here, though unfortunately, you'll only have me for company." Chris has to admire that he even has the grace to laugh at his self-deprecating joke, but the admiration is brief, as Los Angeles kills everything that is precious and good.

Jacob and Chris both tilt their heads and then exchange a look, and Chris honestly never thought he'd be saying this to baby Spock of his own volition, but here it goes:

"Let's grab lunch, Jake. It's been a while, right? My treat."

"Sure, thanks," Jacob says. "Zach's paying, right?"

Chris gives Lindsay a tiny wave and pulls Jacob out the door of the suite by his cuff, muttering something about how Zach is _never_ going to stop paying.

*

Chris takes Jacob to the $60 burger place, because Zach is back on one of his vegetarian kicks (something about not dying in the next five years and high cholesterol running in his family, whatever) and they're $60 burgers whose mediocrity (and therefore the spite) makes them taste even better.

"Get the truffle oil fries," Chris says. "They're so good."

"Really?" Jacob asks.

"Not really," Chris replies. "Get them anyway."

_I AM SPENDING ALL OUR MONEY BECAUSE YOU OBVIOUSLY DITCHED ME FOR SOME MULTIMILLION DOLLAR DEAL SO I'M WINING AND DINING THE FUCK OUT OF JACOB._

"Chris?" someone asks while he's texting. "Chris Pine? _Doctor_ Pine?"

Chris looks up and for fuck's sake, this has to be some prank of Zach and Neal and Moosa's, because there's no way Chris is going to run into all of Zach's future husbands on the same afternoon without some elaborate plotting from the sadistic puppetmaster with immaculate eyebrows he calls his husbandoid.

"It's Zac," the man says, and shit, did Chris just think that? Is baby Zefron now _a man_?

"Of course it is. Hey, Zac," Chris says, and his phone buzzes. "Hold on, waiting to hear from -- here, have a seat, man, meet Jacob. He was baby Spock." Chris opens the text and looks at Jacob. "Right, baby Spock, that's the Zef. Get to know each other. Talk, mingle, lunch is on Quinto."

_i told zac to meet you and jacob for lunch. be nice to them. i'm trying to get them in a movie together. bring them back when you're done. you're the best._

"Fuck my life," Chris sighs.

_I AM GETTING ANOTHER DOG AND IT WILL BE A PUG, WHICH YOU HATE._

_do it. i like pugs. go to a rescue, check for shots. don't go to a KID with a BOX again._

_I hate pugs. We're not getting a fucking pug._

"So," Chris says as he puts his phone on silent and shoves it deep into his pocket. "Zac, did you order something? A beer? An enema? More blond highlights?"

"I only have a beer and wine menu," Zac says as he looks down at his book, and then Chris watches him lean over right into Jacob's personal space and say, a little too quietly, "How about you? Enemas? Highlights? Any of this _fascinating_ stuff Chris has on his menu?"

"My menu's as boring as yours," Jacob says, leaning back in his chair away from Zac a little.

Chris leans on his hand and taps his fingertips on his lips, not feeling the urge to bite away at his nails for the first time in a week. "You two know each other?" Chris asks.

"Just met," Jacob says and for fuck's sake, Chris is torn between cooing and punching someone because Jacob is _blushing_.

"No no," Zac says, and he puts his menu down to look at Jacob carefully. "We -- oh, stupid. We met for a few minutes at that first audition. Isn't that what you're back here for? Zach's retrohipster Napoleonic war movie?"

"Can you even _say_ retrohipster when you _were_ a hipster?" Chris asks, because he's suddenly remembered Zac is only like, five years younger than him.

"That's what it said on the casting call," Zac replies. "Anyway, I'm up for one of the captains, and I think Jacob is -- the young lieutenant?"

"I'm sorry I'm going to have to saw your arm off," Jacob says with like, genuine sadness. "And then, like, cry on it because I love you so much. Or whatever. Is there a plot or are we just gay and hot?"

"You know, when people tell me what my husband does all day," Chris begins, "It just. I'm shocked every time that this crazy bullshit of his actually works."

"He's kind of an evil genius," Jacob agrees.

*

Chris is an asshole for the rest of lunch, letting Zac and Jacob talk over him while he texts Zach under the table.

"Yeah, at college, my friends and I kind of hosted _High School Musical_ drinking games," Jacob admits as his finger traces the rim of his beer in a way that's subtle to a twentysomething and makes Chris, not that old but not that young anymore, just roll his eyes and send Zach another text.

"It's so great that you had the college experience," Zac says as his thumb traces his own lower lip, and then he clasps his hands so Chris can barely hear their low conversation -- like Chris has to listen to know what the fuck is going on. "So what did you study? What was your major?"

_So when you said be nice to them, you meant get them to flirt and fuck once they get out of meeting with you, right? Cause I'm sure that's what's going to happen._

_what? what are you doing? WHAT DID WE SAY ABOUT TOUCHING IN THE BAD PLACE?_

_They like each other, relax._

_if they ruin my movie, i'm firing lindsay and you're going to be my busty unpaid intern all summer._

_You love it when I call you Big Poppa._

_get them over here, they have some studio people to meet, and YOU are staying in the waiting room with lindsay and waiting for me._

_Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? Big Poppa?_

"Are you dirty texting?" Jacob asks suddenly.

"In my day -- okay, your day -- they used to call it _sexting_," Chris says. "What happened to the not-very-clever portmanteaus of our collective youth?"

"Uh, you were like thirty when I was fifteen," Jacob replies. "You weren't --"

"And now, you're _almost_ thirty, so shut it," Chris says, and then he smiles suddenly. "Hey, Zach's ready for you guys, so how about we head out, hm? Maybe on the way someone can get me mowed down in a tragic hit-and-run."

"You're so perfect for Zach it kind of makes me sick," Zac says. "For the record, which I know you're keeping in your phone with a _keyboard_ \-- I mean, be older, Chris."

"The easier to tell Zach to uninvite you from this year's Gay Geek Ball, Zef!"

*

Back at Zach's office suite, Chris walks in and holds the door open for Jacob and the Zef, except he's _waved off_ by his two little charges, what?

"Can you give us a minute?" Zac asks as he puts a hand on Jacob's shoulder.

"Uh, sure," Chris says. "Whatever." He props the door open and goes inside, but decides to hover around just inside so he can eavesdrop and make sure that his standing as First Wife won't be in jeopardy.

"-- your number, so like -- so even if one of us doesn't get this, or _both_ of us get it -- maybe we can have our own thing separate from this? You know?"

There's a few seconds' silence and Lindsay is watching the scene outside the door, _not_ Chris, thankfully, so Chris sits down and looks nonchalant when he hears Zac and Jacob's footsteps approaching.

"Mr. Quinto, they've arrived and are ready for you," Lindsay says clearly into his headset when Zac and Jacob stand in the middle of the waiting room, elbows brushing against each other, Chris's vomit barely suppressed in his mouth.

Zach appears in a few minutes and Chris watches him smile at Zac and Jacob as he makes a beeline for Chris.

"You," Zach says. "What did you do?"

"I brought your babies back, look, they're right there," Chris says, taking advantage of Zach's body blocking everyone to lick his lips salaciously and mouth _hi there_ up at Zach, who rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone.

"Also," Zach says with a quick glance at his phone, "Big Poppa? I thought we upgraded your pop culture module years ago."

"Oh, did you think I was talking about -- no, Zach, don't you remember Miley's Christmas album? When she covered that song? I explained it to you then: Big Poppa was a metaphor for Santa and --"

"No," Zach warns. "We agreed that Christmas _never happened_."

"You can't deny the most magical --"

"I already told Lindsay I'm taking off after this meeting," Zach says as he reaches for Chris's hair and the sunglasses perched there. "Unless you wanted to spend a little more time in the city before going --?"

"Stop please I miss my books," Chris whines, totally not arching into Zach's hand in his hair. "Also, you were right -- burgers make my heart hurt."

"Come on, guys," Zach says to Zac and Jacob. His hand leaves Chris's hair and brushes Chris's hand, and Zach squeezes it before he walks back to his office with the other two in tow.

Chris shuts his eyes tightly and then opens them to find Lindsay staring at him quizzically.

"Hi there," Lindsay says, and Chris smiles weakly in return.

*

Jacob and Zac emerge about an hour later, looking stupidly pleased with themselves and ecstatic, and nearly forget to say goodbye to Chris as they leave except Zac backtracks. He even takes Chris's hand in both of his and mouths _thanks_, so Chris smiles angelically and pats his hands before letting go. Jacob holds up his phone, the universal _I'll text you_ signal (or so he's been told, mostly by Zach.)

Zach emerges again, says bye to Lindsay, and Chris gets up to escort him out of the office.

"So how'd your important shit go?" Chris asks.

"Studio people love them, and hopefully they're going to an empty parking lot to bone because _wow_, they were like, all over each other. In that 'we're so subtle' way, you know. What did you feed them at lunch?"

"Dildos down their throats, obviously, no actual food," Chris replies as he grabs Zach's hand. "Not good for their figures, you know? Anyway, aren't you proud of me?"

"Why? For not throwing yourself into traffic because you had to talk to friends of mine for an hour?"

"Yeah, for that, _and_ because I brought two people together! Zach! I matchmade!"

"Technically, I matchmade, since I sent Zac over to you and Jacob."

"I introduced them," Chris protests.

"Yeah, Jacob told me how you introduced them," Zach laughs. "Baby Spock, here's the Zef. Words that will go down in infamy, Chris. Well done."

"Everyone wins," Chris murmurs as they get into the elevator. "The Zef and Jake can bone to their hearts' content, your movie gets made, and I can work at home knowing your bad place is no longer threatened by these fucking twinks."

"Jaden and Willow Smith are coming in tomorrow," Zach says, just as low and warm near Chris's ear. "And they're even younger than Zac and Jacob."

"Wow, seriously? Just for that, I'm not going to give you the names of all my illegitimate children."

"I'm surprised you'd even consider it, since I'd probably just eat them."

As the elevator doors close, Chris leans into Zach, who wraps an arm around Chris's shoulders and pulls him in tightly, planting a quick kiss on Chris's forehead as they watch each other in the elevator's reflective doors.

*

"The _Beef_?" Chris squeaks into his coffee one morning during breakfast.

"What about His Beefness?" Zach asks.

"Your _dutchbag_ is going out with _The Beef_," Chris repeats to Zach.

"Oh," Zach says. "Well. He's. Ugh, no, I can't condone that, he's just so. He looks like a skinny little bulldog. Ick."

"Zach, she's going after action stars of the past and present," Chris realizes. He looks across the table at Zach and raises his eyebrows, whispering, "What if I'm _next_?"

Zach looks at him, softly and amused, and coos, "How _cute_ are you, I mean really. Don't fear the dutchbag."

Chris suddenly switches gears and leers, "Who said I'm afraid?"

A staring contest ensues until Zach's phone rings, but Chris still can't leave the table until he renews their blood oath to monogamy with a blowjob.

*

"Zac, come on," Jacob hisses. It takes a few more _Zac_s under his breath for the Zef to stop talking to Dan Radcliffe (former child star/pop icon, now talk show host extraordinaire -- the new Parkinson to the UK, the new Oprah to the US) and join Jacob up in front of all their friends in _their_ new apartment.

Chris drinks his whiskey sour a little faster and watches Jacob, cheeks red with excitement, clutching Zac's hand tightly at his side, much in the same way Chris is doing to Zach. He loosens his grip on Zach a little, only to have his hand gripped tighter and yeah, it's going to be like that, he supposes. He doesn't have to glance over at Zach to know he's watching Jacob and the Zef intently, and in the car he's going to have a million observations that totally flew past Chris's notice.

"So, we'd like to thank you for coming to our... uh... we had no idea what to call this on the invites," Jacob laughs, clear and happy, pushing hair out of his face with his other hand. "Moving party, maybe, but you know, we hired movers, and it's not a commitment ceremony or anything because, you know, we're just two guys moving in together, happens every day, right? But some of you flew in from _England_ to be here --"

"Monterey, which isn't quite England," Dan Radcliffe says. "They've got more otters."

"Aren't the otters _awesome_?" Zac asks randomly.

"You came from _pretty far_, is what I'm saying, all of you did," Jacob continues, "So thanks and -- you know, we're so happy to be here together, and we just wanted to celebrate that with all of you."

"Jacob says 'you know' a lot," Chris whispers to Zach under all the polite clapping.

"You say 'like' a lot. I do, too, frankly," Zach replies. "More disconcerting --"

"Chris? Could you come up here?" Jacob asks. "We want your benediction."

"My _what_?" Chris sputters.

"So Zac and I met because of Chris Pine," Jacob explains to everyone, still amused and his eyes glinting mischievously at Chris. "Zach -- Quinto, Chris's partner -- called us in for our last casting meetings on _The Steward_ but triple-booked us with other people, and then Chris invited us both to lunch and introduced us."

"Baby Spock, meet the Zef," Zach chimes in.

"Right," Jacob laughs. "And he knew there was something about us, something special, so he just sat there and texted the whole time, and Zac and I -- well, we didn't even notice, we just -- connected, you know?"

"Seriously, he says it again, I'll --" Chris begins, but people are too busy cooing as the happy couple makes eyes at each other.

"So Chris, come on, get up here," Jacob says, and Zac gives Chris a smug look that reminds him too much of himself for it to be comfortable.

"Go on," Zach whispers as he presses a kiss to Chris's cheek.

"Dammit," Chris hisses, charming smile plastered on all the same. He polishes off his drink and heads up to the front, standing with Jacob and Zac and, remembering the art history classes he drank himself through in college, puts his hands on their heads and sighs deeply.

"Oh, powers that be, whatever you are," Chris begins, "Let these two queers be happy in this modest 3,000-square-foot loft, two bed, two bath, spacious working environments for each of our young men, a really darling entertainment space we're enjoying right now --"

"Get on with it," Zach heckles.

"And let them enjoy each other's company for as long as possible, okay? Okay, great, thanks, universe," Chris finishes.

He adds, after the obligatory aww-ing, "And let them keep their grabby little hands off my husband, praise be, can I get an amen?"

Jacob and Zac laugh and Chris wonders about that feeling in his chest, the one that feels like -- he can feel himself actually soften a little when Zac looks over at Jacob and they lean in to kiss and grin, looking so damn happy their faces might actually split from it. Chris lets go of their hair and walks away, keeping his eyes on Zach, who has a raised eyebrow and a smirk waiting for him.

Except as soon as Chris has crossed the room, Zach is looking over Chris's shoulder, that smirk gone. Chris looks over but doesn't see anything, the party breaking up into chatty cliques again.

"What?" Chris asks.

"I don't like this," Zach murmurs. "First thing the Zef does is kiss Jacob on the cheek and then run and hug his Harry Potter friend."

"You mean his friend, Harry Potter?"

"Oh, whatever," Zach sighs. "Maybe I'm just -- whatever."

"You're just whatever," Chris assures him. "Why would he go for DanRad, the spazzy, white, British Oprah when he's got _Jacob_, who looks like fucking Dante Rossetti, if Dante Rossetti could actually suck a cock? He can't, by the way. He'd been dead for like, two centuries. But even I have to admit, totally objectively, that his mouth was made for sucking dick."

Zach snaps out of it and looks at Chris, head tilted slightly. "I can't believe that's the first time you've ever said _anything_ nice about Jacob and of course, it's about your dick and his mouth."

"I'm just saying," Chris says. "I'm way open to the idea of a threesome with him now that he's so monogamously happy he'd never do it."

"Dr. Pine, you are devious," Zach laughs. "Also, nice benediction. Is this place really only 3,000 square feet? It looks like so much more. I almost want to buy something in this building."

"I know, right? It's so nice you can almost forget it's Los Angeles," Chris says, and then he turns around. "Oh wait. There's the smog. Man, it looks like Mordor over there."

"I hope you know your dorkiness drives me to drink," Zach says.

"Whatever makes you more pliable and bendy in bed," Chris laughs. He takes Zach's hand again, grabs a whiskey sour on a passing tray, and says near Zach's ear, "They really do look stupidly happy."

"They do," Zach agrees. "We're that happy, right?"

"I'm gonna keep you in suspense and not answer that," Chris says. "Listen to me, not answering that. La la la, I'm not answering."

"Three years in, like they are," Zach clarifies, "Were we that happy?"

"No," Chris says after some thought. "I was reading a hundred books for my comps. You were making ironic videos with your stupid hipster friends and _they were not funny_."

"You're such a pain in the _ass_," Zach sighs.

"You're _my_ pain in _my_ ass," Chris replies.

"Let's go mingle smugly and make people feel bad they're not us," Zach decides.

"I love this game because we always win."

*

Abigail comes to their Oscar/20th anniversary party, Beef-less, and Zach breathes a sigh of relief.

"I can't believe you've been plowing the same guy's butt for 20 years, Zachariah," Abigail says. "That's really dedicated of you. And he hasn't tried to set you on fire."

"Only once or twice with his mind," Zach shrugs. "Luckily, Chris has a short attention span."

"I need to go out with someone where that doesn't happen at some point," Abigail muses. Zach watches her look around the room at his party guests and evaluate them coolly. "Why did you only invite pussies to this thing? Well, pussies and Karl Urban. Is Karl --"

"Karl likes sculpting, poetry, sunsets --"

"But he's too tall to be so lame," she whines.

"I'm tall," Zach says.

"He's so tall and not a gold star homosexual with a husband who I can _feel_ giving me the evil eye right now," Abigail clarifies.

"Actually, Karl's older son is your age. Ish. I think," Zach considers. "Let's set that shit up!"

(Poor Hunter never stood a chance.)

*

Jacob shows up at the house in LA one Sunday morning the summer after the Oscars (when Zach won and Jacob got dumped) and waves his phone in Zach's face.

"Did you see this!" Jacob shrieks.

"The thirtysomething standing on my doorstep waving a smartphone in my face?" Zach asks.

"No," Jacob whines. "Look -- the screen -- Zac and Harry Potter invited me to the premiere of their new -- I don't even know what it is, I just know I hate it and -- and I think there's music involved or something -- definitely pastiness, you know?"

"Damn, Jake," Chris says from behind Zach. "What's with the beard?"

"Post break-up scruff," Zach says as he puts an arm around Jacob's shoulders.

Topanga runs in and nuzzles Jacob's leg thoughtfully, Zach thinks because she sensed another needy male in the house and that's kind of her jam.

"Hey girl," Jacob whimpers, and he sinks to the floor to play with her. "Oh God," he moans, "Her breath smells like Zac's."

"Um, ew," Chris says.

"Excuse you both," Zach says, and then realizes, "Oh, the Zef. Yeah, smelly boy. Glad I wasn't the only one who noticed his funk."

"I think this has officially crossed the line into _a problem_," Chris notes as he watches (a little jealously) Jacob hold on to Topanga.

"What tipped you off?" Zach asks. He rolls his eyes and suddenly, the idea springs from his head, fully-formed and brilliant, if he does say so himself.

Chris looks at him with a plaintive _get this kid off my dog and off our floor_ face, and Zach knows Chris will go along with anything to make that happen. They really have to stop allowing children to have post-breakup breakdowns in their foyer.

*

Zach takes Jacob out to brunch and plies him with mimosas before bringing up Operation Yenta.

"Wait, Abigail _Breslin_?" Jacob says as he leans heavily on his hand, his hair falling into his face. "Didn't Dakota Fanning write a bunch of songs about her?"

"Abigail totally won that break up, so you know if things go badly, there won't be a scene!" Zach says excitedly.

"I don't think I'm ready," Jacob sighs. "I mean, I still can't hear a commercial for the _High School Musical_ reboot without changing the channel and crying a little, you know?"

"Jake, that makes _everyone_ cry."

"Good point," he sulks. "Fine, whatever, I guess I can meet her at your place and we can start a journey towards mutually assured self-destruction and reckless hatesex."

"That's the spirit," Zach says, and they clink glasses to celebrate their unlimited mimosa brunch.

*

"... he's got a mouth made for sucking cock," Chris says, because he literally cannot think of anything else.

Abigail falls off the couch laughing.

*

"One thing, Chris," Zach mutters as they walk away from the valet lot towards the restaurant, "I ask you to do one thing, and you have to twist it into something awful for your sick amusement."

"In my defense," Chris replies as he shoves his hands in his pockets, "I really do like the truffle fries here."

"You do _not_," Zach says.

"Yeah, you're right, I don't -- they're pretty average. I'm really just an asshole."

Chris had been put in charge of setting up the introductory double date between Jacob and Abigail (since it was his summer vacation from Berkeley and Zach was actually "working" or whatever), so in his infinite wisdom, he chose the burger restaurant close to Zach's offices where the great romance of Jacob and the Zef had begun.

"This was you, wasn't it?" Jacob asks Chris when they arrive at the door of the restaurant where Jacob was already waiting.

"You need to claim this place back, champ," Chris says as he rests his hand on Jacob's shoulder. "You can't let the Zef have it. The fries are so adequate here."

"Dutchbag!" Zach coos when Abigail gets out of the car that stops just in front of them.

"Ugh, Chris," Abigail groans. "This was you, wasn't it? I hate this place."

"Way to go, dinner at the hellmouth," Zach sighs.

"Dakota went down on me in their bathroom," Abigail adds as she pulls out her tiny makeup mirror and looks at herself briefly. "And then she got mad or something, you know, the way she does, and almost bit off my clit piercing." She snaps the compact shut and then grins at Jacob. "Hey, Jake. Nice to see you again."

"Good to see you, too," Jacob replies, totally unfazed, as Zach and Chris slowly back away from them. "You look great."

"We're gonna tell -- tell people we're here," Chris says as he clutches Zach's hand. "The people inside -- so we can get a table."

"It wasn't that bad, Zachariah," Abigail says to Zach, who had paled considerably in the intervening moments between her anecdote and the well-timed snapping of her compact like Dakota Fanning's teeth. "Though I guess this means the rumor you have a Jacob's ladder on your dick isn't true."

Chris opens his mouth to reply but Zach interrupts with a rare appearance of his crazy eyes and a wordless shriek.

"We're going to get our table and you two stay out here and fall in love like you're supposed to!" Zach snaps.

"That's an order, kids," Chris laughs as he leads Zach inside, trying to hush Zach's shrieks with liberal application of his mouth on Zach's jaw and fervent hand holding.

"They are so fucking cute," Abigail laughs when she and Jacob are alone outside. "Like those octogenarians you see on TV that use their scooters to go shopping together, you know?"

"I do," Jacob says, "Especially since sometimes they remind me of those octogenarians who use their scooters to start a gang that prowls the neighborhoods."

"Oh my _God_, that is so them the minute they get old enough."

Jacob adds, "I bet they have scooters waiting in their garage. Maybe they go on midnight rides through Silverlake on them."

"You've just described my retirement _dream_!" Abigail says. "Okay, I'll give Chris the benefit of the doubt. We're both a little weird and your mouth really does look like it was made to suck cock."

"Great," Jacob says with a grin, and then does a double take. "Wait, what?"

"Come on, the bathroom here really is amazing."

*

The Golden Globes roll around the next year, and Zach and Chris greet them in their boxers and t-shirts, an industrial-sized bucket of popcorn, the dogs, take out, an evening's supply of beer, and Danielle Fishel giving everyone she interviews beautifully backhanded compliments that have them leaving her little winner's circle broken shells of celebrity.

Even with their deeply scarred livers and huge dinners, they're kind of drunk from playing _Hey I Know Them!_ with the people milling around in the background of the E! coverage.

"No, I do," Chris says as he rushes off the couch and kneels in front of the TV, pointing to a bored, balding older white guy who's little more than a speck in the corner of the TV. "He's the guy, right, from the thing."

Zach bursts out laughing and spills a little beer on himself. Serves him right for trying to drink horizontally, but oh well.

"He _is_," Chris says. "His name's... Pete or Bret or Carol or something."

"Those aren't names," Zach laughs. "We can drink anyway -- to your enthusiasm."

"Mmm, totally," Chris says, and he rushes back to the couch, lowering himself onto Zach and sucking the beer from his t-shirt until they both burst out laughing. "Go get me more, you didn't spill enough."

"Told you we should have dragged the cooler in here -- the show hasn't even _started_ yet and we're too lazy to get up for drinks. There's like, six hours of show left!"

"I'm getting the cooler," Chris decides and leaves for the kitchen, but returns with five more bottles in his arms. "I lied. Cooler wasn't there. Dogs will keep them cold."

"Doctor Pine, that's not how science works."

"Shh, I'm a doctor, it's totally -- that's right, man, that's science."

Zach sits up against an arm of the couch so he can drink and have Chris against him, arms around his chest and a hand scratching lightly at him.

"Are you scratching my chest like I'm one of the dogs?" Chris asks slowly.

"Yes," Zach laughs. "You like belly scritches, too."

"Shut up, I'm gonna hurl on you."

Zach wraps his arms around Chris tighter and realizes he's reached that point where words don't really make sense anymore -- at least, not when they're on TV and being squeaked out by TV's Topanga.

"You don't regret not going, right?" Chris asks. "I mean, they wanted you to present and stuff."

"This was my idea, remember?" Zach replies. "I told them you were having a psychotic break."

"You did not," Chris says. "I bet I'd have gotten way more sympathy chocolates if I was."

And in a split second, Danielle Fishel's placid but sassy award show coverage becomes disaster reporting because that is definitely a brawl that's broken out on the red carpet behind the E! platform.

"Am I suddenly stoned or is Dutchbag is totally whaling on Harry Potter?" Chris marvels.

"Oh holy shit," Zach says as he does an actual spit take that drives the dogs away with a snuffle and huff. "Here comes Dakota."

"Zach," Chris says slowly, "I think Jacob just knocked out one of the Zef's teeth."

"I love the Golden Globes," Zach says as he wraps his arms tighter around Chris. "I just love _award shows_, you know? They're so -- they're a time for coming together and getting wasted with you."

Chris plants a sloppy, wet kiss on Zach's arm and pushes back against him, settling in to watch Jacob try to tear out Dan Radcliffe's hair plugs while Abigail laughs and hides a Disney tween idol's missing tooth in her purse.


End file.
